Camy Tang's Blog, page 154
April 28, 2011
Heart-Attack-Inducing Scones
Captain's Log, Stardate 04.28.2011
Some of you will recognize the photo from my Facebook page yesterday. Yes, I made scones.
Many of you know how much I loooooooove English High Tea (which, as my British friends tell me, most Brits don't really do very often at all). I adore tea and scones. And Devonshire cream and jam. My favorite High Tea restaurant is Lisa's Tea Treasures, one at the Pruneyard and one at Santana Row. They both have the most AWESOME scones on the planet.
I have tried making scones lots of times and just could never seem to get them to taste like the Lisa's Tea Treasures scones. Then I was reading Sandie Bricker's novel, Always the Wedding Planner, Never the Bride for endorsement, and she has this amazing blueberry scones recipe that uses butter and cream. So naturally I had to make them.
I did not have blueberries, although I anticipate getting strawberries in my co-op delivery on Friday, so I will make the scones again with strawberries on Friday. :) But even without the blueberries, OH MY GOSH the scones turned out amazing! I guess it helps that the recipe has twice the butter of the other scones recipe I was using, and uses whipping cream instead of milk.
The neato pan in the picture is one I bought at Williams-Sonoma, and as soon as I saw it I knew I had to have it. Making scones is a BREEZE with this pan because I don't have to roll out the dough, I just smash it into the sections and then bake it. Plus the pan has a non-stick coating, so I only need a little butter in each section to make the scones slip right out. Then again, this time I used so much butter in the recipe, maybe I didn't need the butter in the pan after all …
Regardless, I scarfed down 5 of those puppies in a couple hours with my pot of tea, which was Thé Au Chocolat made by my favorite tea store, Lupicia. I paired my scones (like the butter wasn't enough) with apricot preserves. I was in heaven!!!!
I have GOT to find a way to put these scones in a book. I'm working on a new Love Inspired Suspense proposal. Maybe I'll have my hero's mother make these.
I was asked to post the recipe, so here it is, but be aware that they were a little too salty, so the next time I make them, I'll probably reduce the salt. The recipe was cobbled together from Sandie's recipe and a recipe from an old Time-Life book on British cooking.
Heart-Attack-Inducing Scones
2 ½ cups flour
3 ½ teaspoons baking powder
2 ½ teaspoons salt (this is too much salt if you use regular salted butter; next time, I'll either use less salt or use unsalted butter)
1 tablespoon sugar
8 tablespoons butter (yes you read that right, that's one stick of butter)
¾ cup heavy whipping cream
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Butter the scone pan or whatever pan you're going to use for the scones.
Combine dry ingredients. Cut the butter into the dry ingredients until it resembles coarse meal.
Beat the egg with a whisk until it's frothy, then whisk in the cream. Pour over the flour mixture.
Toss together until dough forms a compact ball. The recipe has you roll it out on a lightly floured surface and cut into rounds, but I just tore off hunks of dough and stuffed them into my scones pan. They made 16 triangles perfectly, or if you cut them into rounds, they should make 12 rounds.
Bake for 15-18 minutes, until light brown.
Some of you will recognize the photo from my Facebook page yesterday. Yes, I made scones.Many of you know how much I loooooooove English High Tea (which, as my British friends tell me, most Brits don't really do very often at all). I adore tea and scones. And Devonshire cream and jam. My favorite High Tea restaurant is Lisa's Tea Treasures, one at the Pruneyard and one at Santana Row. They both have the most AWESOME scones on the planet.
I have tried making scones lots of times and just could never seem to get them to taste like the Lisa's Tea Treasures scones. Then I was reading Sandie Bricker's novel, Always the Wedding Planner, Never the Bride for endorsement, and she has this amazing blueberry scones recipe that uses butter and cream. So naturally I had to make them.
I did not have blueberries, although I anticipate getting strawberries in my co-op delivery on Friday, so I will make the scones again with strawberries on Friday. :) But even without the blueberries, OH MY GOSH the scones turned out amazing! I guess it helps that the recipe has twice the butter of the other scones recipe I was using, and uses whipping cream instead of milk.
The neato pan in the picture is one I bought at Williams-Sonoma, and as soon as I saw it I knew I had to have it. Making scones is a BREEZE with this pan because I don't have to roll out the dough, I just smash it into the sections and then bake it. Plus the pan has a non-stick coating, so I only need a little butter in each section to make the scones slip right out. Then again, this time I used so much butter in the recipe, maybe I didn't need the butter in the pan after all …
Regardless, I scarfed down 5 of those puppies in a couple hours with my pot of tea, which was Thé Au Chocolat made by my favorite tea store, Lupicia. I paired my scones (like the butter wasn't enough) with apricot preserves. I was in heaven!!!!
I have GOT to find a way to put these scones in a book. I'm working on a new Love Inspired Suspense proposal. Maybe I'll have my hero's mother make these.
I was asked to post the recipe, so here it is, but be aware that they were a little too salty, so the next time I make them, I'll probably reduce the salt. The recipe was cobbled together from Sandie's recipe and a recipe from an old Time-Life book on British cooking.
Heart-Attack-Inducing Scones
2 ½ cups flour
3 ½ teaspoons baking powder
2 ½ teaspoons salt (this is too much salt if you use regular salted butter; next time, I'll either use less salt or use unsalted butter)
1 tablespoon sugar
8 tablespoons butter (yes you read that right, that's one stick of butter)
¾ cup heavy whipping cream
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Butter the scone pan or whatever pan you're going to use for the scones.
Combine dry ingredients. Cut the butter into the dry ingredients until it resembles coarse meal.
Beat the egg with a whisk until it's frothy, then whisk in the cream. Pour over the flour mixture.
Toss together until dough forms a compact ball. The recipe has you roll it out on a lightly floured surface and cut into rounds, but I just tore off hunks of dough and stuffed them into my scones pan. They made 16 triangles perfectly, or if you cut them into rounds, they should make 12 rounds.
Bake for 15-18 minutes, until light brown.
Excerpt - Double Identity by Diane Burke
Double Identity by
Diane Burke
Sophie Clarkston is shocked to learn that she isn't who she thinks. Her birth certificate is forged. Her name—made up. And her widowed "father" is suddenly missing, leaving behind a heartbreaking letter asking forgiveness. Desperate for answers, Sophie turns to private investigator Cain Garrison in tiny Promise, Virginia. But the moment they leave his office, her life is threatened and her home ransacked. Who is after her? And who, exactly, is she? With questions about his own past, Cain vows to help Sophie uncover the truth. Before someone comes out of the shadows to keep it hidden forever.
Excerpt of chapter one:
"According to this report, Miss Clarkston, you do not exist."
Cain Garrison looked up from the file folder lying on his desk. He had to admit he was intrigued. It had been quite a while since anyone had contracted his private investigator services for anything more than getting the goods on a cheating husband or following up on insurance fraud. Usually, it was so quiet in the small town of Promise, Virginia, that he found most of his work in neighboring counties or in the city of Charlottesville.
Tapping his index finger on the folder, he said, "Your birth certificate and social security card are phony." His eyes locked with hers. "Okay, I'll take the bait. Who are you really and what do you want from me?"
He leaned back in his chair and studied the petite young woman sitting in front of him. If he had to guess, he'd say she was in her early twenties. Thick ebony hair covered her shoulders and trailed down her back. She wore a T-shirt, jeans, sneakers and little, if any, makeup. But then she didn't need any.
She squared her shoulders. He might have bought into her calm-and-collected facade if he hadn't noticed her ramrod straight posture as she perched on the edge of her chair and her white knuckles from the tight clasp of her hands.
"My name is Sophia Joy Clarkston but everybody calls me Sophie. I was born twenty-two years ago to Elizabeth and Anthony Clarkston. My mother died in a car accident shortly after I was born. My dad raised me." Her lips pursed in distaste and she nodded toward the folder on his desk. "I don't care what lies are written on that piece of paper. I know who I am. I need you to find my dad."
Ahh, the plot thickens. Cain tried to hide the smile pulling at his lips. This must be his sister's idea of a prank. He'd been complaining lately about being bored. Voila. Phony case that she knew he'd salivate over. Okay, he'd play the game. Why not?
"Your dad's missing?"
Sophie chewed on her bottom lip and nodded. She smoothed her jeans, picking at pretend lint, trying unsuccessfully to hide her nervousness.
"Adults aren't usually considered missing, Miss Clarkston. My experience has taught me most people leave of their own volition, mostly because they're just tired of being where they are or with the people around them. How long ago did your father disappear and what makes you think this qualifies as a missing person case?"
"He's been gone two weeks now." She rummaged in the tote bag resting at her feet and withdrew a white piece of paper. "I received this letter a couple of days after he left."
Cain reached across the desk and accepted the letter from her hand. He knew from the crinkled and stained condition of the paper that the note had probably been crushed into a ball, tossed in the trash, only to be rescued, folded and put away for safekeeping. If the variety of stains meant anything, he was pretty sure this note had hit the trash can more than once. Whatever the contents, one thing was evident. This letter had created a seesaw of emotions in this woman.
He read the first line. He blinked hard and then read the first line again.
By the time you get this letter, I'll be dead.
Cain shot a look to Sophie. Sea-foam green eyes shimmering with an ocean depth of emotions stared back at him. Maybe this wasn't a prank. He focused his attention on the paper in his hands.
Sophie studied the man's face as he read the letter—again—for the third, maybe fourth time. His chiseled features revealed none of his thoughts or emotions. For all intents and purposes, it was easy to pretend he was one of her sculptures. An inanimate object, consisting of carved angles and sharp edges, incapable of emotion.
Unless, like herself, he'd learned how to bury those emotions.
She'd read the letter at least a hundred times in the past two weeks. It still had the power to make her feel like someone was physically ripping her heart out of her chest. What had her dad been thinking? Why hadn't he confided in her? Trusted her? Maybe she could have helped him.
A flush of anger swept over her. Didn't he know how frightened and worried she'd be at his sudden disappearance? How could he have done this to her? Just as quickly she was filled with remorse. She shouldn't be mad at him. Obviously, he wasn't thinking clearly. He was in trouble. Desperate and feeling alone. Pretty much like she was feeling right about now.
Sophie steadied her trembling hands. She needed to stay levelheaded. She refused to believe her dad was dead. If he was, she'd know, wouldn't she? There'd be a huge, aching void where her heart had been. Instead, all she felt was pain, fear and confusion.
He had to be alive. Nothing else was acceptable or compre-hendible. She had to find him before his words came true.
She drew in a deep, calming breath and tried to remain patient while the investigator continued reading. His body language indicated he was intrigued by the document in his hand. Subtle movements. Chewing his lower lip as he read. Fingers drumming a steady rhythm against the arm of his chair. A slight squinting of his eyes, fanning lines across his skin. How many times was he going to read the letter? She could recite it for him if he wanted. She knew each word by heart.
I am enclosing this gift as a token of my love.
Sophie's hand flew to the hand-carved wooden heart hanging around her neck. Her fingers traced an idle path along the intricate design.
I know you don't understand why I left without a word. But for your safety, I could not tell you then and don't dare tell you now.
For my safety? Mine?
Oh, Dad. What's going on? What do you mean you'll be dead? You can't be dead. You can't.
They're coming. I must hurry and say good-bye.
I am ready, princess. I am ready to go on that last great adventure each one of us inevitably takes.
Just know that I love you…with all my heart.
Her breathing quickened and her eyes flew to Cain Garrison. Was he going to take the case? She didn't know what she'd do if he turned her down. Would he be able to help? She'd tried everything she could think of and he was her last hope. She fidgeted in her seat. How much longer would he sit there staring at that rotten piece of paper that had caused her nothing but sorrow and anger?
Dear Lord, help me be patient. After all, I've had time to digest this nightmare. This man's had about six minutes.
The prayer came automatically, almost as if her mind didn't remember that she had stopped talking to God. He didn't answer prayers…or, at least, He didn't answer hers.
Sophie brushed her hair off her shoulders, letting it fall in waves down her back, and sat straighter in the soft leather chair. She could almost hear her dad's scolding voice from childhood. "Sophie Joy Clarkston, what's wrong with you? You're full of itches and twitches, girl."
Itches and twitches.
Sophie chewed on a fingernail and thought about the last time she'd seen her dad. After a late dinner they'd sat together on the front porch, listening to music, gazing at the stars, sharing idle conversation. She'd kissed him good-night and gone up to bed. The next morning she'd found a bag filled with money—a huge sum of money—lying on the table by her chair. He was gone. Without warning or word of any kind. Until two days later when the letter had arrived in the mail.
Her breath came in short, quick gasps and she felt like she was going to crawl out of her skin. She needed to distract herself. Fast.
Crossing to the window, she raised a slat and looked outside. Main Street consisted of four blocks of mom-and-pop stores, a restaurant or two, an insurance company, a pharmacy. A handful of passersby bustled past the window as they hurried about their business. A few people stood together on the sidewalk chatting.
Nothing scary.
Nothing ominous.
So why couldn't she shake the feeling that someone was watching her every move? Her nerves were shot. She hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks and it was starting to show.
"Forgive my rudeness, Ms. Clarkston," Cain said as he placed the letter on his desk and stood. "Can I offer you a cup of coffee or a soft drink?"
"Coffee would be wonderful. Cream and sugar, please. And call me Sophie."
Blinking hard to hold back tears, she returned to her chair. She admired the professional yet welcoming atmosphere of the office as she looked around. Two brown leather chairs faced a highly polished mahogany desk. The tall cabinet on the far wall looked more like a fine piece of furniture than storage for files. A variety of plants and a large silk tree added an outdoor ambience to the room. Two framed professional investigator licenses hung on the wall to the left of heavy hunter-green drapes.
Two? In such a small town as Promise?
The deep, rich aroma of freshly ground coffee wafted from behind a silk screen standing in front of a small kitchen area. Sophie's stomach growled, reminding her she hadn't had any breakfast.or dinner the night before.
"One sugar or two?"
Sophie liked listening to the deep resonant tone of his voice. He seemed sure of himself, in control. And that's what she needed right now, someone to help control the chaos surrounding her.
"Two, please."
She watched him approach. His thick chestnut hair tumbled in an unkempt wave across his forehead, almost obscuring his vision, and she had to sit on her hands to control the absurd impulse she had to reach up and swipe it out of his eyes. He was handsome, sort of a young Johnny Depp look-alike, late twenties, maybe early thirties. If he was as good at his job as he was to look at, then she was definitely in the right place.
Cain winced as he carried the coffee mug to his client. The stiffness in his left leg shot a wave of pain into his hip.
He could feel her eyes boring into him as he limped across the room.
"Don't worry. It looks a lot worse than it is." He grinned and handed her a mug.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare."
"Don't sweat it. You're simply wondering if you're spending your money wisely or if you've made a mistake."
"It's not that," she stammered.
"Of course it is." He grinned and perched his hip on the edge of the desk. "Never apologize for considering all the facts when making a business transaction." He slapped his leg. "I could joke and say it's an old war injury. In a way it probably is. A war wound from my undercover narcotics days when I worked for the Charlottesville police."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You didn't do it." He slid off the edge of the desk and went back to his chair. "After my injury, they offered me a life behind a desk but that wasn't the life for me." He rapped on the desk. "Unless I own the desk, of course."
Her smile made him happy that his words had had their desired effect.
"How long have you been a private investigator?" Sophie asked.
"Three years now. My partner and I opened Garrison Investigations shortly after I moved back home. I decided I'd had enough of big-city living and wanted to return to my country roots."
"Pardon my rudeness, but I'm surprised you have a partner, Mr. Garrison. If I remember correctly, Promise is a very small town."
Cain grinned. "That's so true, Ms. Clarkston."
"Sophie…"
He nodded. "Sophie. My sister, Holly, is my partner. She runs the diner across the street. Serves the best home-cooked meals you've ever tasted. But every now and then when I run into a situation where a female touch would have more success, she steps in and helps out."
Sophie nodded her understanding.
He leaned back in his chair. "How did you hear about us? Yellow pages? Word of mouth?"
"You're listed in the Crossroads Church business directory."
"You attend Crossroads? I don't remember seeing you there. Not that I know everyone, of course, but it is a small community and newcomers have a tendency to be noticed."
"I haven't attended really. I've just arrived in town." She shifted in her seat, her eyes downcast. "Besides, the Lord and I aren't on speaking terms these days."
Cain tented his fingers in front of his lips to hide his smile. "That so? Yet you chose to get your business references from the church directory instead of the yellow pages?"
Color heightened in her cheeks.
"Where are you from?" Cain asked.
A shadow of hesitation crossed her face. "I'm a bit of a nomad. I don't call any one place home."
Cain tilted his head to the side and studied her bowed head. There were many layers and hidden secrets to Miss Sophie Clarkston. She intrigued him.
"Well, let me be one of the first to welcome you to Promise. I'm surprised you found us," he said. "But I'm glad you did."
"I'm familiar with Promise, Mr. Garrison. My family has owned a small cottage about ten miles out of town for as long as I can remember. My dad and I travel extensively so we rarely stay in it, but if I had to call one place home, I guess Promise would qualify."
Cain rested his forearms on his desk. "Tell me about this letter."
She sipped her coffee then placed the mug on the desk. "I received the letter two days after my dad disappeared. The postmark made me think he came to the cottage. If he did, he didn't stay."
The pain he saw in her eyes stirred him.
"Has your father ever done anything like this before?"
"No. Definitely not. My father would never hurt me."
Cain didn't bother to point out that that is exactly what he had just done.
"It's always been just me and my dad," Sophie said. "He's hardworking, kind, loving. He has a strong belief in God and lives his life modeling his faith. I don't understand. He never would have left me without a word. Never. Unless he had no other choice. I need your help, Mr. Garrison. I need to know what happened to my dad."
"Call me Cain. In this small town, Mr. Garrison is still my father's name." He grabbed a tablet and pen out of his side desk drawer. "Why don't we start at the beginning?" He made a few notations on the paper and asked without looking up, "I assume when your dad disappeared you notified the police." Her hesitation caused him to look up.
"Yes." She squirmed in her seat and didn't make eye contact with him. "At first, they weren't much help. It's not against the law for an adult to decide to leave. When I got this letter, I tried to convince them that he was in danger and we needed to find him."
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April 27, 2011
Excerpt - Face of Danger by Valerie Hansen
Face of Danger by
Valerie Hansen
Giving murder victims a face is forensic artist Paige Bryant's specialty. She can always put the pieces together. But her work turns dangerous when Texas Ranger Cade Jarvis brings her a special project related to the notorious Lions of Texas. Identifying the victim could help with the ongoing search for the murderer of Cade's boss…yet it also draws deadly attention to Paige. As she contends with attack after attack with only Cade's protection, the two of them draw closer together, learn to open their hearts…and struggle to identify the face of danger before it's too late.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Texas Ranger Cade Jarvis gripped the wheel of his pickup truck, his neck and shoulder muscles knotting. He was on the most important mission of his career and nothing was going to stop him from reaching Austin. Nothing.
His glance darted to the rearview mirror. He'd been keeping an eye on the erratic movements of a set of headlights approaching behind him. The SUV was speeding, cutting in and out of the heavy traffic as if that driver thought he was on a racetrack instead of the highway.
Cade tensed. The guy was crowding everyone he passed and scattering them like a flock of scared chickens.
The dark SUV drew parallel with his truck and swerved toward him. Cade sounded his horn. There was no discernible reaction from the speeder.
Cade managed to avoid physical contact once, twice. Again. He muttered, "Sober up before you kill us both," and clenched his teeth.
The SUV matched him move for move while other drivers did their best to distance themselves from the obvious confrontation.
The reckless driver closed the sideways gap so abruptly, so forcefully, Cade couldn't dodge this time. The sound of rending, crushing, sliding metal against metal squealed through the cold November night.
Hitting his brakes, Cade braced for an even worse collision. He glanced over at the evidence case resting next to him on the seat and prayed instinctively, "Dear God. Don't let anything stop me from getting that to the forensic artist."
Tires sliding, truck body slewing sideways, Cade felt his front bumper clip the supporting post of a highway sign. The pickup's chassis did a 180 and ended up half on and half off the road, facing oncoming traffic, before Cade was finally able to bring it to a stop.
The high, bright headlights of an eighteen-wheeler were bearing down on him. He could hear the semi's air horn blasting, its brakes locking and tires squealing. Throwing his arms over his face, he prayed he'd live through the next few seconds.
The usually busy Texas Ranger headquarters building in Austin was quiet—except for the beating of Paige Bryant's heart and her niggling feeling that something wasn't quite right.
"Stop it. Just stop it. You're being silly," the forensic artist told herself as she leaned out of her studio and peered down the empty hallway. It looked as though everyone in that part of the office had already gone home for the night. Which was where she should be. Where she would be if she weren't waiting for a delivery.
She closed her office door and began to pace. It was only about seventy-five miles from Company D in San Antonio to this main Ranger office in Austin, and easy, highway driving almost all the way. What could be keeping that Ranger? She didn't know Cade Jarvis well, but the few times they had met she'd been favorably impressed.
Paige huffed, disgusted with herself. Impressed? Boy, was that an understatement. If Ranger Jarvis was half as good-looking as she recalled, he'd be attractive enough to curl her toes. He stood nearly six feet tall, with dusky blond hair and mischievous eyes the color of warm mocha java. And when he smiled, the fine lines of an outdoorsman crinkled at the corners of those appealing eyes, though she doubted the man was much over thirty, if that.
She was about to give up on him and head for home when her phone rang. She snatched it up before the second ring. "Hello?"
"Ms. Bryant? This is Cade Jarvis," the slightly breathless male voice said. "I'm going to be a little late."
He was already more than a little late but something in his tone gave Paige pause and made her ask, "Are you all right?"
"Boy, news travels fast."
"I beg your pardon?" It was becoming clear to Paige that this call was not the result of a normal travel delay. "What news? What's happened?"
"I was run off the road not far from there."
Her free hand flew to her throat and her eyes widened. "Oh, no! Are you all right?"
"Fine. Actually, I'm in better shape than my truck is. It would have been a lot worse if other drivers hadn't steered around me after I spun out. As soon as the troopers finish their report, I'll hitch a ride with one of them and have him drop me at your office."
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. Thankfully, there's no problem with the remains I'm bringing you, either. I had the skull packed in a padded evidence bag, so it wasn't damaged by the collision. I figured you'd probably make a composite copy to model the clay over, anyway, but I'd still like to get it to you in one piece."
"It is a lot easier—and more accurate—if I don't have to work with an original that starts out looking like a jigsaw puzzle." Still concerned, Paige paused. "Listen, if you tell me exactly where you are, I'll be glad to drive over and get you."
"That won't be necessary."
"I don't mind. It would give me a chance to peek at the evidence, too. I know how important it is to ID that victim ASAP."
The Ranger's chuckle struck her as sounding a bit cynical. When he spoke she was certain. "Oh, I get it. It's not me you're worried about, it's these bones."
"I didn't mean anything of the kind." Glad he couldn't see her blush, Paige realized she was embarrassed by how close he'd come to the truth. "I do care about my job," she insisted. "A lot. But that doesn't mean I don't care about living people, too."
"Hey, I was just teasing. No offense meant, ma'am."
Whew. "None taken. So, do you want me to come get you or do you think you'll be here fairly soon?"
"Hold on a sec."
While she waited, Paige listened to a hodgepodge of muted conversations in the background. Between the overlap of voices and the humming traffic noise, it was hard to pick out individual words, at least not well enough to tell what was being said.
"Ma'am? You still there?" Cade finally asked.
"Yes. What did you decide?"
"One of the troopers will give me a ride while they haul my truck in so the lab boys can take paint samples from the parts that were sideswiped. I should be at your office within a half hour. Do you mind waiting just a little longer?"
"Not at all. See you soon."
Hanging up, Paige busied herself tidying her office and trying to catch up on paperwork. Details like that always fell by the wayside when she was concentrating on drawing or sculpting the faces of nameless victims. Victims just like her sister.
Paige purposely tried to redirect her thoughts. There was nothing to be gained by beating herself up over past events. Amy was gone. Had been for sixteen years. The pretty three-year-old would probably never be located, alive or otherwise, and there was no way to change what had happened no matter how much Paige wished otherwise.
She pulled herself together and lifted her chin. "It wasn't my fault," she whispered into the silence. "I did my best to help her."
That was true. And now she reached out to other victims of horrendous crimes and gave them faces. Gave their families closure and a chance at justice. What she did was more than a job. It was her calling.
It was also her atonement.
* * *Cade thanked the trooper for the lift, squared his white cowboy hat on his head and straightened his tie before heading toward the main Ranger headquarters. He smiled when he saw a slim woman in jeans and a denim jacket waiting for him next to the rear entrance.
"Ms. Bryant?"
"That's me. We have met before, you know." She extended her hand and Cade shook it. "In San Antonio."
"I do remember you. It's just kind of dark out here and I wasn't positive."
Actually, he'd recalled very little about the Rangers' only forensic artist other than her being in her mid-twenties and having long, dark hair that she'd kept tightly gathered at the nape of her neck. Add to that the plain, half glasses she'd worn for close work and the woman had been the spitting image of a stern schoolmarm in an old Western movie.
When he saw her this time he immediately changed his mind. Paige Bryant was lovely, with expressive green eyes and long, loosely swinging dark hair that rippled around her shoulders and brushed against her cheeks as she tilted her head.
"I waited out here for you because I figured you didn't have a key card for this door."
"You're right. Thanks."
"Is that the victim you told me about?" she asked, eyeing the blue, cubelike case.
"Yes." Sweeping his free arm toward the door he said, "Shall we? It's cold out here and I know you're anxious to see what I've brought you."
She slid her card through the reader next to the outer door and led the way to her office.
Cade had never visited this particular room before so he was taken aback. It looked more like a cozy artist's studio than it did a scientific laboratory. He spotted several computers at work stations and a small, boxy, black machine he didn't recognize. Beyond that, the place was arrayed in a personal, extremely artistic manner.
There were rows of framed pictures of faces on one wall, a window on another and tall filing cabinets on the third. Beside them hung a painting of an ethereal-looking child whose face seemed to drift in the mist of the artist's imagination.
Cade set the case on the nearest table and approached the painting while Paige removed her jacket. "This picture is amazing. Did you paint it?"
"Yes." She was unzipping the carrying bag as she spoke. "Tell me again what you know about this victim."
"Not a whole lot," Cade replied as he joined her. "We're pretty sure he's tied to Gregory Pike's murder. We just can't prove exactly how."
"I guessed as much when I was told to drop everything and give your case my full attention," she said with evident empathy. "We're all still in shock after what happened to Captain Pike. How's the rest of that investigation coming along? Any hits on the sketch I made from his daughter Corinna's description of her stalker?"
Cade nodded soberly. "Yes. We got him."
"Wonderful. How about the likenesses I created from my photos of the man in the coma?"
"Those helped, too. We still don't know his name, but a witness saw the pictures and came forward with some information."
"So, what do you know?"
"He's Irish. The witness remembered his brogue."
"Good. At least that's a start."
"Yeah. A mighty slow one." Cade sighed. "Greg was special. He was more than my superior, he was my friend and mentor. I owed him plenty. Still do."
Paige donned latex gloves and carefully lifted the skull, supporting the lower jaw as she turned the relic in her hands to assess it. "I'm confused. What makes you think this death is associated with Captain Pike's? Under normal conditions it can take from six months to a year to reduce human remains to a skeletal state. This man must have died long before the captain was killed."
Cade nodded. "The Lions of Texas drug cartel is the link. It has to be. Did you know that Pike had ordered all of Company D to rendezvous at his house just before he was shot and killed?"
"Yes. Corinna told me all about it while I was making the sketch of the man who broke into her house. Did you ever figure out what her father was so eager to tell all the other Rangers?"
"We have an idea. Apparently, the Lions were afraid there was incriminating evidence in the house. They sent someone to retrieve it, and Corinna interrupted. Since she could ID him, he decided to take her out."
"Poor Corinna. Is she all right?"
"Yes. Now she is. When we finally nabbed her stalker, he told us he worked for the Lions and mentioned a drug drop site the Lions were still using. We put a Ranger undercover and staked it out, hoping to catch them in the act."
"Did you?"
"In a manner of speaking. We may have gotten something better." He pointed. "The skull you're holding was dug up on that property while we had it under surveillance. It's too big a coincidence to overlook. There has to be a connection between that murder and the drug cartel."
"Were you able to arrest anyone at the grave site?"
"Not at that time, but it worked out in the end. All we got at first was the jacket of the guy who was trying to retrieve the skull. Later, a man named Greco came after Jennifer Rodgers, the woman who owns the property on which the drop site and skull were located. Greco was killed by the Ranger we had working undercover there."
"Uh-oh. He didn't talk first?"
"No." Cade frowned and gestured at the skull. "If you can help us ID this guy, we may be able to make more progress than we have lately."
"What about the guy in the coma? Could he have been a secret informant for Captain Pike? He was found shot at the house alongside Pike's body, right?"
"Yeah. He's still in a coma so we can't question him, although we do have hope he may recover. They say he moved his fingers slightly. All we have to work with right now is his photo and the fact that he's Irish."
Cade tilted his head toward the skull she was holding so gingerly. "Which leaves that as our only other clue at present. That's why it's so important. So important that I've been ordered to stick around until you finish the facial reconstruct—"
Without any warning, all the overhead lights blinked off.
Cade heard Paige gasp.
"Hold your horses," he said. "I'm sure it's nothing. The emergency generator should kick on in a few seconds."
"I wonder. Look outside. The lights in the parking lot are still working."
Cade's right hand instinctively went to his gun, his palm resting on the grip, his thumb unsnapping the tab that kept it in the holster. "You're right. Stay where you are. I'll go have a look around."
He heard shuffling. Then she grabbed the sleeve of his leather jacket.
"I'm going with you."
"Don't be silly."
"The silly part is how afraid I get when it's totally dark. Either you take me with you or I'll probably panic and get hysterical." She drew a noisy, shaky breath. "I mean it. I know it's stupid and irrational but I'm really, really scared."
"Okay. You can come. Grab the evidence. We're not leaving it unguarded."
He heard the slide of a zipper as she closed the carrying case. Now that his vision had adjusted more to the darkness he could see enough via the reflected exterior lights to move around safely, even in such unfamiliar territory.
"Got it," Paige said. "I'm ready."
Judging by the quaver in her tone she was truly frightened.
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Street Team Book List excerpt - MINE IS THE NIGHT by Liz Curtis Higgs
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Liz Curtis Higgs
and the book:
Mine Is the Night WaterBrook Press (March 15, 2011) ***Special thanks to Cindy Brovsky of Random House Inc. for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Liz Curtis Higgs is the author of 28 books with three million copies in print, including: her best-selling historical novels, Here Burns My Candle, Thorn in My Heart, Fair Is the Rose, Christy Award-winner Whence Came a Prince, Grace in Thine Eyes, a Christy Award finalist, and Here Burns My Candle, a RT Book Reviews Award finalist; My Heart's in the Lowlands: Ten Days in Bonny Scotland, an armchair travel guide to Galloway; and her contemporary novels, Mixed Signals, a Rita Award finalist, and Bookends, a Christy Award finalist.
Visit the author's website. You'll also find her on Facebook and Twitter.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
The emotional and spiritual journey that began with Here Burns My Candle (WaterBrook Press, 2010) soars to a triumphant finish in Mine Is the Night (WaterBrook Press, March 15, 2011) a dramatic and decidedly Scottish retelling of the biblical love story of Boaz and Ruth. A compelling tale of redemption and restoration, the latest novel from best-selling author Liz Curtis Higgs transports both story and reader to 18th century Scotland, where two widows are forced to begin anew.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 464 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (March 15, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1400070023
ISBN-13: 978-1400070022
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Foul whisperings are abroad.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Selkirkshire
26 April 1746
The distant hoofbeats were growing louder.
Elisabeth Kerr quickly pushed aside the curtain and leaned out the carriage window. A cool spring rain, borne on a blustery wind, stung her cheeks. She could not see the riders on horseback, hidden by the steep hill behind her. But she could hear them galloping hard, closing the gap.
Her mother-in-law seemed unconcerned, her attention drawn to the puddle forming at their feet. A frown creased her brow. "Do you mean for us to arrive in Selkirk even more disheveled than we already are?" Three long days of being jostled about in a cramped and dirty coach had left Marjory Kerr in a mood as foul as the weather.
"'Tis not the rain that concerns me." Elisabeth resumed her seat, feeling a bit unsteady. "No ordinary traveling party would ride with such haste."
Marjory's breath caught. "Surely you do not think—"
"I do."
Had they not heard the rumors at every inn and coaching halt? King George's men were scouring the countryside for anyone who'd aided bonny Prince Charlie in his disastrous bid to reclaim the British throne for the long-deposed Stuarts. Each whispered account was worse than the last. Wounded rebel soldiers clubbed to death. Houses burned with entire families inside. Wives and daughters ravished by British dragoons.
Help us, Lord. Please. Elisabeth slipped her arm round her mother-in-law's shoulders as she heard the riders crest the hill and bear down on them.
"We were almost home," Marjory fretted.
"The Lord will rescue us," Elisabeth said firmly, and then they were overtaken. A male voice cut through the rain-soaked air, and the carriage jarred to a halt.
Mr. Dewar, their round-bellied coachman, dropped from his perch and landed by the window with a grunt. He rocked back on his heels until he found his balance, then yanked open the carriage door without ceremony. "Beg yer pardon, leddies. The captain here would have a wird with ye."
Marjory's temper flared. "He cannot expect us to stand in the rain."
"On the contrary, madam." A British dragoon dismounted and rolled into view like a loaded cannon. His shoulders were broad, his legs short, his neck invisible. "I insist upon it. At once, if you please."
With a silent prayer for strength, Elisabeth gathered her hoops and maneuvered through the narrow carriage doorway. She was grateful for Mr. Dewar's hand as she stepped down, trying not to drag her skirts through the mud. Despite the evening gloom, her eyes traced the outline of a hillside town not far south. Almost home.
The captain, whom Elisabeth guessed to be about five-and-forty years, watched in stony silence as Marjory disembarked. His scarlet coat was drenched, his cuffed, black boots were covered with filth, and the soggy brim of his cocked hat bore a noticeable wave.
He was also shorter than Elisabeth had first imagined. When she lifted her head, making the most of her long neck, she was fully two inches taller than he. Some days she bemoaned her height but not this day.
By the time Marjory joined her on the roadside, a half-dozen uniformed men had crowded round. Broadswords hung at their sides, yet their scowls were far more menacing.
"Come now," Mr. Dewar said gruffly. "Ye've nae need to frighten my passengers. State yer business, and be done with it. We've little daylight left and less than a mile to travel."
"Selkirk is your destination?" The captain seemed disappointed. "Not many Highland rebels to be found there."
"'Tis a royal burgh," Marjory told him, her irritation showing. "Our townsfolk have been loyal to the crown for centuries."
Elisabeth shot her a guarded look. Have a care, dear Marjory.
The captain ignored her mother-in-law's comments, all the while studying their plain black gowns, a curious light in his eyes. "In mourning, are we? For husbands, I'll wager." He took a brazen step toward Elisabeth, standing entirely too close. "Tell me, lass. Did your men give their lives in service to King George? At Falkirk perhaps? Or Culloden?"
She could not risk a lie. Yet she could not speak the truth.
Please, Lord, give me the right words.
Elisabeth took a long, slow breath, then spoke from her heart. "Our brave men died at Falkirk honoring the King who has no equal."
He cocked one eyebrow. "Did they now?"
"Aye." She met the captain's gaze without flinching, well aware of which sovereign she had in mind. I am God, and there is none like me. She'd not lied. Nor had the dragoon grasped the truth behind her words: by divine right the crown belonged to Prince Charlie.
"No one compares to His Royal Highness, King George," he said expansively. "Though I am sorry for your loss. No doubt your men died heroes."
Elisabeth merely nodded, praying he'd not ask their names. A list of royalist soldiers killed at Falkirk had circulated round Edinburgh for weeks. The captain might recall that Lord Donald and Andrew Kerr were not named among the British casualties. Instead, her handsome husband and his younger brother were counted among the fallen rebels on that stormy January evening.
My sweet Donald. However grievous his sins, however much he'd wounded her, she'd loved him once and mourned him still.
Her courage bolstered by the thought of Donald in his dark blue uniform, Elisabeth squared her shoulders and ignored the rain sluicing down her neck. "My mother-in-law and I are eager to resume our journey. If we are done here—"
"We are not." Still lingering too near, the captain inclined his head, measuring her. "A shame your husband left such a bonny widow. Though if you fancy another soldier in your bed, one of my men will gladly oblige—"
"Sir!" Marjory protested. "How dare you address a lady in so coarse a manner."
His dragoons quickly closed ranks. "A lady?" one of them grumbled. "She sounds more like a Highlander to my ear."
The captain's expression darkened. "Aye, so she does." Without warning he grasped the belled cuff of Elisabeth's sleeve and turned back the fabric. "Where is it, lass? Where is your silk Jacobite rose?"
"You've no need to look." Elisabeth tried to wrest free of him. "I haven't one."
Ignoring her objections, he roughly examined the other cuff, nearly tearing apart the seam. "The white rose of Scotland was Prince Charlie's favorite, was it not? I've plucked them off many a Highland rebel."
"I imagine you have." Elisabeth freed her sleeve from his grasp. "Are you quite satisfied?"
"Far from it, lass." The captain eyed the neckline of her gown, his mouth twisting into an ugly sneer. "It seems your flower is well hidden. Nevertheless, I mean to have it."
It is time for a
FIRST Wild Card Tour
book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Liz Curtis Higgs
and the book:
Mine Is the Night WaterBrook Press (March 15, 2011) ***Special thanks to Cindy Brovsky of Random House Inc. for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Liz Curtis Higgs is the author of 28 books with three million copies in print, including: her best-selling historical novels, Here Burns My Candle, Thorn in My Heart, Fair Is the Rose, Christy Award-winner Whence Came a Prince, Grace in Thine Eyes, a Christy Award finalist, and Here Burns My Candle, a RT Book Reviews Award finalist; My Heart's in the Lowlands: Ten Days in Bonny Scotland, an armchair travel guide to Galloway; and her contemporary novels, Mixed Signals, a Rita Award finalist, and Bookends, a Christy Award finalist. Visit the author's website. You'll also find her on Facebook and Twitter.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
The emotional and spiritual journey that began with Here Burns My Candle (WaterBrook Press, 2010) soars to a triumphant finish in Mine Is the Night (WaterBrook Press, March 15, 2011) a dramatic and decidedly Scottish retelling of the biblical love story of Boaz and Ruth. A compelling tale of redemption and restoration, the latest novel from best-selling author Liz Curtis Higgs transports both story and reader to 18th century Scotland, where two widows are forced to begin anew.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 464 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (March 15, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1400070023
ISBN-13: 978-1400070022
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Foul whisperings are abroad.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Selkirkshire
26 April 1746
The distant hoofbeats were growing louder.
Elisabeth Kerr quickly pushed aside the curtain and leaned out the carriage window. A cool spring rain, borne on a blustery wind, stung her cheeks. She could not see the riders on horseback, hidden by the steep hill behind her. But she could hear them galloping hard, closing the gap.
Her mother-in-law seemed unconcerned, her attention drawn to the puddle forming at their feet. A frown creased her brow. "Do you mean for us to arrive in Selkirk even more disheveled than we already are?" Three long days of being jostled about in a cramped and dirty coach had left Marjory Kerr in a mood as foul as the weather.
"'Tis not the rain that concerns me." Elisabeth resumed her seat, feeling a bit unsteady. "No ordinary traveling party would ride with such haste."
Marjory's breath caught. "Surely you do not think—"
"I do."
Had they not heard the rumors at every inn and coaching halt? King George's men were scouring the countryside for anyone who'd aided bonny Prince Charlie in his disastrous bid to reclaim the British throne for the long-deposed Stuarts. Each whispered account was worse than the last. Wounded rebel soldiers clubbed to death. Houses burned with entire families inside. Wives and daughters ravished by British dragoons.
Help us, Lord. Please. Elisabeth slipped her arm round her mother-in-law's shoulders as she heard the riders crest the hill and bear down on them.
"We were almost home," Marjory fretted.
"The Lord will rescue us," Elisabeth said firmly, and then they were overtaken. A male voice cut through the rain-soaked air, and the carriage jarred to a halt.
Mr. Dewar, their round-bellied coachman, dropped from his perch and landed by the window with a grunt. He rocked back on his heels until he found his balance, then yanked open the carriage door without ceremony. "Beg yer pardon, leddies. The captain here would have a wird with ye."
Marjory's temper flared. "He cannot expect us to stand in the rain."
"On the contrary, madam." A British dragoon dismounted and rolled into view like a loaded cannon. His shoulders were broad, his legs short, his neck invisible. "I insist upon it. At once, if you please."
With a silent prayer for strength, Elisabeth gathered her hoops and maneuvered through the narrow carriage doorway. She was grateful for Mr. Dewar's hand as she stepped down, trying not to drag her skirts through the mud. Despite the evening gloom, her eyes traced the outline of a hillside town not far south. Almost home.
The captain, whom Elisabeth guessed to be about five-and-forty years, watched in stony silence as Marjory disembarked. His scarlet coat was drenched, his cuffed, black boots were covered with filth, and the soggy brim of his cocked hat bore a noticeable wave.
He was also shorter than Elisabeth had first imagined. When she lifted her head, making the most of her long neck, she was fully two inches taller than he. Some days she bemoaned her height but not this day.
By the time Marjory joined her on the roadside, a half-dozen uniformed men had crowded round. Broadswords hung at their sides, yet their scowls were far more menacing.
"Come now," Mr. Dewar said gruffly. "Ye've nae need to frighten my passengers. State yer business, and be done with it. We've little daylight left and less than a mile to travel."
"Selkirk is your destination?" The captain seemed disappointed. "Not many Highland rebels to be found there."
"'Tis a royal burgh," Marjory told him, her irritation showing. "Our townsfolk have been loyal to the crown for centuries."
Elisabeth shot her a guarded look. Have a care, dear Marjory.
The captain ignored her mother-in-law's comments, all the while studying their plain black gowns, a curious light in his eyes. "In mourning, are we? For husbands, I'll wager." He took a brazen step toward Elisabeth, standing entirely too close. "Tell me, lass. Did your men give their lives in service to King George? At Falkirk perhaps? Or Culloden?"
She could not risk a lie. Yet she could not speak the truth.
Please, Lord, give me the right words.
Elisabeth took a long, slow breath, then spoke from her heart. "Our brave men died at Falkirk honoring the King who has no equal."
He cocked one eyebrow. "Did they now?"
"Aye." She met the captain's gaze without flinching, well aware of which sovereign she had in mind. I am God, and there is none like me. She'd not lied. Nor had the dragoon grasped the truth behind her words: by divine right the crown belonged to Prince Charlie.
"No one compares to His Royal Highness, King George," he said expansively. "Though I am sorry for your loss. No doubt your men died heroes."
Elisabeth merely nodded, praying he'd not ask their names. A list of royalist soldiers killed at Falkirk had circulated round Edinburgh for weeks. The captain might recall that Lord Donald and Andrew Kerr were not named among the British casualties. Instead, her handsome husband and his younger brother were counted among the fallen rebels on that stormy January evening.
My sweet Donald. However grievous his sins, however much he'd wounded her, she'd loved him once and mourned him still.
Her courage bolstered by the thought of Donald in his dark blue uniform, Elisabeth squared her shoulders and ignored the rain sluicing down her neck. "My mother-in-law and I are eager to resume our journey. If we are done here—"
"We are not." Still lingering too near, the captain inclined his head, measuring her. "A shame your husband left such a bonny widow. Though if you fancy another soldier in your bed, one of my men will gladly oblige—"
"Sir!" Marjory protested. "How dare you address a lady in so coarse a manner."
His dragoons quickly closed ranks. "A lady?" one of them grumbled. "She sounds more like a Highlander to my ear."
The captain's expression darkened. "Aye, so she does." Without warning he grasped the belled cuff of Elisabeth's sleeve and turned back the fabric. "Where is it, lass? Where is your silk Jacobite rose?"
"You've no need to look." Elisabeth tried to wrest free of him. "I haven't one."
Ignoring her objections, he roughly examined the other cuff, nearly tearing apart the seam. "The white rose of Scotland was Prince Charlie's favorite, was it not? I've plucked them off many a Highland rebel."
"I imagine you have." Elisabeth freed her sleeve from his grasp. "Are you quite satisfied?"
"Far from it, lass." The captain eyed the neckline of her gown, his mouth twisting into an ugly sneer. "It seems your flower is well hidden. Nevertheless, I mean to have it."
It is time for a
FIRST Wild Card Tour
book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book! You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
April 18, 2011
I'm done with my devotions!
Captain's Log, Stardate 04.08.2011
I was contracted to write several devotions for a book being published by Guideposts, called Mornings With Jesus, and I just finished them last night/this morning!
I was contracted to write several devotions for a book being published by Guideposts, called Mornings With Jesus, and I just finished them last night/this morning!
April 15, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - TEA FOR TWO by Trish Perry
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
Tea For Two
Harvest House Publishers (April 1, 2011)
by Trish Perry
Zack Cooper tries his best to raise his children, but he's losing his grip on them in their teen years. They've both had scrapes with the local law.
Tea Shop owner Milly Jewel has the perfect woman in mind to help Zack. Counselor Tina Milano meets weekly at the tea shop with her women's group. Milly encourages Zack and Tina to work together to draw the teens back before they get in even hotter water. Milly never thought things might heat up between Zack and Tina. Or did she?
Tina's connections with the Middleburg police department prove a mixed blessing for Zack and his kids. Both her best friend and old boyfriend are officers on the force.
And when Tina's women's group gets wind of her personal pursuits and clashes, they want to help. The group's meetings at the tea shop take on a slightly different flavor. Tina wonders who, exactly, is counseling whom.
Although heroine Tina Milano and her women's group are mentioned in The Perfect Blend (the first book in this series), Tea for Two is where we meet her and hero Zack Cooper. I knew I would write this book while I wrote the first, so it was fun to plant a passing mention of Zack and Tina while I wrote Steph's story in The Perfect Blend. By the time I was able to write Tina and Zack's story, I was eager to unfold their lives, conflicts, and love. I hope readers will be eager to experience what happens to them!
A word from our Author: I started writing short stories—pretty bad ones. And I started taking creative writing courses to round out my degree. So I was in classes full of people just like me—lousy writers. But we were learning!
Then the Lord led me to a local writers' group, Capital Christian Writers, and the contacts and friends I made through CCW enriched my personal life and my writing life more than I can measure. Through CCW and through reading just about every book and magazine ever published by Writer's Digest, I started catching on. Now I'm writing full time and man oh man do I love it.
Before the writing began, I worked for attorneys in Washington, D. C. I worked for the Securities and Exchange Commission. And I was a stockbroker. A horrible stockbroker. How do people do that? Take responsibility for other people's financial futures? Yikes. I'm perfectly happy to take responsibility for the amount of time any one person wants to spend reading my books. If you enjoy the experience, then know that we both enjoyed it together. I love that about books.
In the midst of all that fretting over other people's money and writing about other people's lives, I racked up a few personal experiences myself. Some good, some bad, but all part of God's plan. Now I'm an empty nester living in Northern Virginia. My brilliantly funny son is in college. I have a savvy, gorgeous grown daughter, a charming son-in-law, and an amazing grandson.
Watch the Book Video:
Excerpt of chapter one:
CHAPTER ONE
Zack Cooper wasn't your typical male, and he knew it. He couldn't simplify life by innately compartmentalizing its various issues. If something was wrong at home, that something tried to go with him when he left for work. And this rainy June morning, while he drove a delivery to Millicent's Tea Shop in downtown Middleburg, that something felt like a passenger sitting right there in the front seat of his truck. Or maybe like two passengers, since his teenagers, Dylan and Sherry, were what was wrong at home.
He pulled his truck up in front of the tea shop and hurried to remove and keep dry two boxes of produce from underneath his truck bed's tarp. A chatty group of women walked toward the front door and blocked his path toward the shop's back door, so he waited for them to file into Milly's. He would have tipped his baseball cap were his hands free, but they didn't seem to notice him, anyway.
Most of the ladies shared umbrellas, squeezing together to avoid the rain. The lone woman at the end of the group, while the last to enter, somehow seemed in charge. As she neared Zack, she tilted her umbrella back to look at him.
"I'm sorry. Excuse us."
Zack experienced a momentary ability to compartmentalize. The kids were nowhere in his mind, just for that instant. Neither was work.
This was one great looking woman. Exotic, with that dark hair and those warm brown eyes. Even though he hadn't said a word, her lips tugged into a subtle smile, and she looked at him as if he had the driest wit imaginable.
On the contrary, he stood in the rain, holding fruit, and struggled to string words together. "Uh, yeah. Sure. I mean, yes. Or, no. No problem."
Her eyes twinkled at him right before she turned and entered the shop.
He shook his head and spoke aloud. "Real smooth, there, Zack." He headed around to the rear of the building.
Milly didn't answer the back door right away. Zack figured she was up front in the dining area, greeting the same ladies he had just passed. She expected his delivery this morning, though, so she probably unlocked the door for him. He shifted the boxes to one arm and was about to reach for the door knob with the other when he heard a sweet young voice from behind.
"Who's that handsome farmer? Locked out, are you?"
Zack turned to see Jane, Milly's assistant, dashing across the street toward him. He grinned at her as she tossed back the hood of her slicker and shook her fair, red hair. Like Milly, Jane always managed to sound upbeat. And both of them were from somewhere in England, so Zack always loved listening to them talk.
"Morning, Jane! I'm not sure if it's locked. Haven't tried the knob yet, but Milly didn't answer. I knocked with my elbow, though, so she might not have heard me."
Jane jangled a set of keys out of her purse, even while she reached for the knob. "Ah, there we go. Not locked."
Zack lifted his chin at her. "After you." The moment the door opened, he could smell the irresistible pastries freshly baked or still baking in one of the shop's ovens. He wondered if Jane could hear his stomach grumble. He'd missed breakfast this morning.
Milly walked back into the kitchen and broke into a warm smile as Jane and Zack entered.
"Sorry I'm late, Milly." Jane removed her slicker and swiftly exchanged it for an apron. "I'll never get used to how timid drivers get around here when a single drop of water falls from the sky."
Milly set a serving tray on the counter and pointed to a mat near the door. "Mind you dry your shoes off so you don't slip, Jane. You're just in time for Tina's group. Would you mind bringing them a pot of English Breakfast? Tina's asked for a tray of the apple-cranberry scones. To start, anyway."
Jane prepared the teapot, cups, and saucers. "Is Carmella with her today? I saw her over the weekend, and she said she didn't care how early in the morning they were meeting or what else they were ordering, she planned to get some of your little berry shortcakes before leaving."
"We'd better go ahead and whip up some cream, then." Milly turned her attention to Zack. "Oh, Zack, I'm sorry. Here, here." She patted the counter near the sink. "Set those right down. Such a wet morning for you! Do you have time for a cup of tea?"
She turned away and poured a cup without waiting for his answer.
"I appreciate it." Zack set the boxes of berries, cucumbers, and watercress on the spacious counter. He was always impressed with how tidy Milly's kitchen was, considering how much she produced in it. He removed his hat and tucked it in his back pocket. "Had another one of those mornings with the kids. Didn't get to enjoy my morning coffee, so I could use the caffeine." He took the delicate cup and saucer from her as if they were priceless museum pieces.
"Milk?" She stepped to the refrigerator, but he waved her off.
"No, this is great." He glanced toward the kitchen door, the one that led into the dining area. "You've got a good-sized group already, I see." He wasn't about to ask outright about that woman he saw earlier, but he wondered if she was Tina. Or Carmella.
"Yes, this is one of my regular groups. We have a few groups that come in on a scheduled basis."
He watched her prepare a three-tiered tray with lacy paper things and what he assumed were the scones she mentioned. His stomach growled again, and she looked up at him.
He grimaced. "Sorry."
She smiled and pulled a chair over to the counter. "Have a seat, young man. Something tells me you missed more than your coffee this morning."
Zack obeyed her, and she placed one of the scones on a fancy, flowered plate and retrieved a bowl of dense cream from the refrigerator.
"Here, now. You start off with that, just as my ladies out front are going to do." She spooned a generous portion of the cream onto his plate. "We call this clotted cream. Use it like butter, only more generously. I think you'll like it. And if you want to try the little berry shortcakes Jane was talking about, you'll have to stick around a few minutes. Interested?"
He shook his head as he bit into the amazingly perfect pastry. "Mmm." Apple cranberry. His new favorite combination. He quickly swallowed and washed it down with tea. "Can't stay, no. But wow, that's something!" He held up what was left of the scone. "I need to make a few more deliveries this morning before heading home. I got off to a late start."
Milly had resumed her work, spooning the thick cream into a serving bowl. "You said the kids gave you a rough morning. Is everything all right?"
He shrugged his shoulders as he swallowed another warm, savory bite. Without his asking, Milly placed another scone on his plate. "Thanks, Milly. No more after that. I really have to go." He sighed. "I don't know. Seems like one day Dylan and Sherry thought I was terrific. Their hero. And then suddenly I'm the enemy. We don't seem to be able to get through a single conversation without getting into an argument."
"Typical teenaged issues?" Milly stopped working. "How old are they now?"
"Dylan's seventeen. Sherry's fifteen-going-on-get-lost-Dad."
Milly smiled. "I'm sure they—"
Jane walked back into the kitchen. "You have those scones, Milly? Oh, great. Thanks." She took the tray and bowl of cream from Milly and grinned. "I was right. Carmella's already talked several of them into adding the shortcakes to today's order."
"I'll get on it." Milly turned toward the refrigerator, and Zack stood. He hadn't finished his scones, but he had taken up enough of her time.
"Let me get out of your way, Milly."
"No, hold on a minute, Zack. Sit and finish. I want to give you a few goodies to bring home to the kids. We'll have them calling you a hero again in no time."
He smiled and sat for awhile longer. "Thanks." He scratched at the back of his neck. "To tell you the truth, I don't know how much of the problem is teenaged growing pains and how much of it is the aftermath of their mother's leaving. I've never dealt with teenagers before."
Milly nodded and placed several pastries in a box. "I wondered about that, too. How long since Maya left?"
"Four years ago. Still not a word from her, but I've heard through the grapevine she's moved on from the guy she left with. Different guy now. I can understand her leaving me. I just don't know why a mother would leave her kids like that."
Milly placed the box on the counter. "I imagine Dylan and Sherry wonder the same thing. Poor dears."
Zack's cell phone rang, and he pulled it from his shirt pocket. "'Scuse me, Milly."
His caller ID made him frown. It was smack in the middle of the school day.
"Dylan? Aren't you supposed to stay off the phone during school hours?"
"Um, I'm not at school. I, I need you to come get me."
Zack stood. "Now what? Please tell me you didn't skip class again."
"Dad, I'm at the police station. I've been arrested."
Tea For TwoHarvest House Publishers (April 1, 2011)
by Trish Perry
Zack Cooper tries his best to raise his children, but he's losing his grip on them in their teen years. They've both had scrapes with the local law.
Tea Shop owner Milly Jewel has the perfect woman in mind to help Zack. Counselor Tina Milano meets weekly at the tea shop with her women's group. Milly encourages Zack and Tina to work together to draw the teens back before they get in even hotter water. Milly never thought things might heat up between Zack and Tina. Or did she?
Tina's connections with the Middleburg police department prove a mixed blessing for Zack and his kids. Both her best friend and old boyfriend are officers on the force.
And when Tina's women's group gets wind of her personal pursuits and clashes, they want to help. The group's meetings at the tea shop take on a slightly different flavor. Tina wonders who, exactly, is counseling whom.
Although heroine Tina Milano and her women's group are mentioned in The Perfect Blend (the first book in this series), Tea for Two is where we meet her and hero Zack Cooper. I knew I would write this book while I wrote the first, so it was fun to plant a passing mention of Zack and Tina while I wrote Steph's story in The Perfect Blend. By the time I was able to write Tina and Zack's story, I was eager to unfold their lives, conflicts, and love. I hope readers will be eager to experience what happens to them!
A word from our Author: I started writing short stories—pretty bad ones. And I started taking creative writing courses to round out my degree. So I was in classes full of people just like me—lousy writers. But we were learning!
Then the Lord led me to a local writers' group, Capital Christian Writers, and the contacts and friends I made through CCW enriched my personal life and my writing life more than I can measure. Through CCW and through reading just about every book and magazine ever published by Writer's Digest, I started catching on. Now I'm writing full time and man oh man do I love it.
Before the writing began, I worked for attorneys in Washington, D. C. I worked for the Securities and Exchange Commission. And I was a stockbroker. A horrible stockbroker. How do people do that? Take responsibility for other people's financial futures? Yikes. I'm perfectly happy to take responsibility for the amount of time any one person wants to spend reading my books. If you enjoy the experience, then know that we both enjoyed it together. I love that about books.
In the midst of all that fretting over other people's money and writing about other people's lives, I racked up a few personal experiences myself. Some good, some bad, but all part of God's plan. Now I'm an empty nester living in Northern Virginia. My brilliantly funny son is in college. I have a savvy, gorgeous grown daughter, a charming son-in-law, and an amazing grandson.
Watch the Book Video:
Excerpt of chapter one:
CHAPTER ONE
Zack Cooper wasn't your typical male, and he knew it. He couldn't simplify life by innately compartmentalizing its various issues. If something was wrong at home, that something tried to go with him when he left for work. And this rainy June morning, while he drove a delivery to Millicent's Tea Shop in downtown Middleburg, that something felt like a passenger sitting right there in the front seat of his truck. Or maybe like two passengers, since his teenagers, Dylan and Sherry, were what was wrong at home.
He pulled his truck up in front of the tea shop and hurried to remove and keep dry two boxes of produce from underneath his truck bed's tarp. A chatty group of women walked toward the front door and blocked his path toward the shop's back door, so he waited for them to file into Milly's. He would have tipped his baseball cap were his hands free, but they didn't seem to notice him, anyway.
Most of the ladies shared umbrellas, squeezing together to avoid the rain. The lone woman at the end of the group, while the last to enter, somehow seemed in charge. As she neared Zack, she tilted her umbrella back to look at him.
"I'm sorry. Excuse us."
Zack experienced a momentary ability to compartmentalize. The kids were nowhere in his mind, just for that instant. Neither was work.
This was one great looking woman. Exotic, with that dark hair and those warm brown eyes. Even though he hadn't said a word, her lips tugged into a subtle smile, and she looked at him as if he had the driest wit imaginable.
On the contrary, he stood in the rain, holding fruit, and struggled to string words together. "Uh, yeah. Sure. I mean, yes. Or, no. No problem."
Her eyes twinkled at him right before she turned and entered the shop.
He shook his head and spoke aloud. "Real smooth, there, Zack." He headed around to the rear of the building.
Milly didn't answer the back door right away. Zack figured she was up front in the dining area, greeting the same ladies he had just passed. She expected his delivery this morning, though, so she probably unlocked the door for him. He shifted the boxes to one arm and was about to reach for the door knob with the other when he heard a sweet young voice from behind.
"Who's that handsome farmer? Locked out, are you?"
Zack turned to see Jane, Milly's assistant, dashing across the street toward him. He grinned at her as she tossed back the hood of her slicker and shook her fair, red hair. Like Milly, Jane always managed to sound upbeat. And both of them were from somewhere in England, so Zack always loved listening to them talk.
"Morning, Jane! I'm not sure if it's locked. Haven't tried the knob yet, but Milly didn't answer. I knocked with my elbow, though, so she might not have heard me."
Jane jangled a set of keys out of her purse, even while she reached for the knob. "Ah, there we go. Not locked."
Zack lifted his chin at her. "After you." The moment the door opened, he could smell the irresistible pastries freshly baked or still baking in one of the shop's ovens. He wondered if Jane could hear his stomach grumble. He'd missed breakfast this morning.
Milly walked back into the kitchen and broke into a warm smile as Jane and Zack entered.
"Sorry I'm late, Milly." Jane removed her slicker and swiftly exchanged it for an apron. "I'll never get used to how timid drivers get around here when a single drop of water falls from the sky."
Milly set a serving tray on the counter and pointed to a mat near the door. "Mind you dry your shoes off so you don't slip, Jane. You're just in time for Tina's group. Would you mind bringing them a pot of English Breakfast? Tina's asked for a tray of the apple-cranberry scones. To start, anyway."
Jane prepared the teapot, cups, and saucers. "Is Carmella with her today? I saw her over the weekend, and she said she didn't care how early in the morning they were meeting or what else they were ordering, she planned to get some of your little berry shortcakes before leaving."
"We'd better go ahead and whip up some cream, then." Milly turned her attention to Zack. "Oh, Zack, I'm sorry. Here, here." She patted the counter near the sink. "Set those right down. Such a wet morning for you! Do you have time for a cup of tea?"
She turned away and poured a cup without waiting for his answer.
"I appreciate it." Zack set the boxes of berries, cucumbers, and watercress on the spacious counter. He was always impressed with how tidy Milly's kitchen was, considering how much she produced in it. He removed his hat and tucked it in his back pocket. "Had another one of those mornings with the kids. Didn't get to enjoy my morning coffee, so I could use the caffeine." He took the delicate cup and saucer from her as if they were priceless museum pieces.
"Milk?" She stepped to the refrigerator, but he waved her off.
"No, this is great." He glanced toward the kitchen door, the one that led into the dining area. "You've got a good-sized group already, I see." He wasn't about to ask outright about that woman he saw earlier, but he wondered if she was Tina. Or Carmella.
"Yes, this is one of my regular groups. We have a few groups that come in on a scheduled basis."
He watched her prepare a three-tiered tray with lacy paper things and what he assumed were the scones she mentioned. His stomach growled again, and she looked up at him.
He grimaced. "Sorry."
She smiled and pulled a chair over to the counter. "Have a seat, young man. Something tells me you missed more than your coffee this morning."
Zack obeyed her, and she placed one of the scones on a fancy, flowered plate and retrieved a bowl of dense cream from the refrigerator.
"Here, now. You start off with that, just as my ladies out front are going to do." She spooned a generous portion of the cream onto his plate. "We call this clotted cream. Use it like butter, only more generously. I think you'll like it. And if you want to try the little berry shortcakes Jane was talking about, you'll have to stick around a few minutes. Interested?"
He shook his head as he bit into the amazingly perfect pastry. "Mmm." Apple cranberry. His new favorite combination. He quickly swallowed and washed it down with tea. "Can't stay, no. But wow, that's something!" He held up what was left of the scone. "I need to make a few more deliveries this morning before heading home. I got off to a late start."
Milly had resumed her work, spooning the thick cream into a serving bowl. "You said the kids gave you a rough morning. Is everything all right?"
He shrugged his shoulders as he swallowed another warm, savory bite. Without his asking, Milly placed another scone on his plate. "Thanks, Milly. No more after that. I really have to go." He sighed. "I don't know. Seems like one day Dylan and Sherry thought I was terrific. Their hero. And then suddenly I'm the enemy. We don't seem to be able to get through a single conversation without getting into an argument."
"Typical teenaged issues?" Milly stopped working. "How old are they now?"
"Dylan's seventeen. Sherry's fifteen-going-on-get-lost-Dad."
Milly smiled. "I'm sure they—"
Jane walked back into the kitchen. "You have those scones, Milly? Oh, great. Thanks." She took the tray and bowl of cream from Milly and grinned. "I was right. Carmella's already talked several of them into adding the shortcakes to today's order."
"I'll get on it." Milly turned toward the refrigerator, and Zack stood. He hadn't finished his scones, but he had taken up enough of her time.
"Let me get out of your way, Milly."
"No, hold on a minute, Zack. Sit and finish. I want to give you a few goodies to bring home to the kids. We'll have them calling you a hero again in no time."
He smiled and sat for awhile longer. "Thanks." He scratched at the back of his neck. "To tell you the truth, I don't know how much of the problem is teenaged growing pains and how much of it is the aftermath of their mother's leaving. I've never dealt with teenagers before."
Milly nodded and placed several pastries in a box. "I wondered about that, too. How long since Maya left?"
"Four years ago. Still not a word from her, but I've heard through the grapevine she's moved on from the guy she left with. Different guy now. I can understand her leaving me. I just don't know why a mother would leave her kids like that."
Milly placed the box on the counter. "I imagine Dylan and Sherry wonder the same thing. Poor dears."
Zack's cell phone rang, and he pulled it from his shirt pocket. "'Scuse me, Milly."
His caller ID made him frown. It was smack in the middle of the school day.
"Dylan? Aren't you supposed to stay off the phone during school hours?"
"Um, I'm not at school. I, I need you to come get me."
Zack stood. "Now what? Please tell me you didn't skip class again."
"Dad, I'm at the police station. I've been arrested."
April 14, 2011
Excerpt - The Journey by Wanda Brunstetter
The Journeyby
Wanda Brunstetter
Discover along with Titus Fisher how life can begin anew in Christian County, Kentucky. Moving from Pennsylvania, finding rewarding work, and leaving a broken romance behind is the best decision Titus ever made. But is he ready to consider love again when he meets two women: one who seems perfectly suited for any Amish man and one who challenges long held ideas of the woman's role. Who will Titus choose, and will it be the right choice?
Excerpt of chapter one:
Print book:
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Amazon
Christianbook.com
Books a Million
Ebook:
Nookbook
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April 12, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - A COWBOY'S TOUCH by Denise Hunter
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Denise Hunter
and the book:
A Cowboy's Touch Thomas Nelson (March 29, 2011) ***Special thanks to Audra Jennings, Senior Media Specialist, The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Denise lives in Indiana with her husband Kevin and their three sons. In 1996, Denise began her first book, a Christian romance novel, writing while her children napped. Two years later it was published, and she's been writing ever since. Her books often contain a strong romantic element, and her husband Kevin says he provides all her romantic material, but Denise insists a good imagination helps too!
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Wade's ranch home needs a woman's touch. Abigail's life needs a cowboy's touch.
Four years ago, rodeo celebrity Wade Ryan gave up his identity to protect his daughter. Now, settled on a ranch in Big Sky Country, he lives in obscurity, his heart guarded by a high, thick fence.
Abigail Jones isn't sure how she went from big-city columnist to small-town nanny, but her new charge is growing on her, to say nothing of her ruggedly handsome boss. Love blossoms between Abigail and Wade--despite her better judgment. Will the secrets she brought with her to Moose Creek, Montana separate her from the cowboy who finally captured her heart?
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Thomas Nelson (March 29, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1595548017
ISBN-13: 978-1595548016
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Abigail Jones knew the truth. She frowned at the blinking curser on her monitor and tapped her fingers on the keyboard-what next?
Beyond the screen's glow, darkness washed the cubicles. Her computer hummed, and outside the office windows a screech of tires broke the relative stillness ofthe Chicago night.
She shuffled her note cards. The story had been long in coming, but it was finished now, all except the telling. She knew where she wanted to take it next.
Her fingers stirred into motion, dancing across the keys. This was her favorite part, exposingtruth to the world. Well, okay, not the world exactly, not with Viewpoint's paltry circulation. But now, during the writing, it felt like the world.
Four paragraphs later, the office had shrunk away, and all that existed were the words on the monitor and her memory playing in full color on the screen of her mind.
Something dropped onto her desk with a sudden thud. Abigail's hand flew to her heart, and her chair darted from her desk. She looked up at her boss's frowning face, then shared a frown of her own. "You scared me."
"And you're scaring me. It's after midnight, Abigail—what are you doing here?" Marilyn Jones's hand settled on her hip.
The blast of adrenaline settled into Abigail's bloodstream, though her heart was still in overdrive. "Being an ambitious staffer?"
"You mean an obsessive workaholic."
"Something wrong with that?"
"What's wrong is my twenty-eight-year-old daughter is working all hours on a Saturday night instead of dating an eligible bachelor like all the other single women her age." Her mom tossed her head, but her short brown hair hardly budged. "You could've at least gone out with your sister and me. We had a good time."
"I'm down to the wire."
"You've been here every night for two weeks." Her mother rolled up a chair and sank into it. "Your father always thought you'd be a schoolteacher, did I ever tell you that?"
"About a million times." Abigail settled into the chair, rubbed the ache in her temple. Her heart was still recovering, but she wanted to return to her column. She was just getting to the good part.
"You had a doctor's appointment yesterday," Mom said. Abigail sighed hard.
"Whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?"
"Goes out the window when the doctor is your sister. Come on, Abigail, this is your health. Reagan prescribed rest—R-E-S-T—and yet here you are."
"A couple more days and the story will be put to bed."
"And then there'll be another story."
"That's what I do, Mother."
"You've had a headache for weeks, and the fact that you made an appointment with your sister is proof you're not feeling well."
Abigail pulled her hand from her temple. "I'm fine."
"That's what your father said the week before he collapsed."
Compassion and frustration warred inside Abigail. "He was sixty-two." And his pork habit hadn't helped matters. Thin didn't necessarily mean healthy. She skimmed her own long legs, encased in her favorite jeans . . . exhibit A.
"I've been thinking you should go visit your great-aunt." Abigail already had a story in the works, but maybe her mom had a lead on something else. "New York sounds interesting. What's the assignment?"
"Rest and relaxation. And I'm not talking about your Aunt Eloise—as if you'd get any rest there—I'm talking about your Aunt Lucy."
Abigail's spirits dropped to the basement. "Aunt Lucy lives in Montana." Where cattle outnumbered people. She felt for the familiar ring on her right hand and began twisting.
"She seems a bit . . . confused lately."
Abigail recalled the birthday gifts her great-aunt had sent over the years, and her lips twitched. "Aunt Lucy has always been confused."
"Someone needs to check on her. Her latest letter was full of comments about some girls who live with her, when I know perfectly well she lives alone. I think it may be time for assisted living or a retirement community."
Abigail's eyes flashed to the screen. A series of nonsensical letters showed where she'd stopped in alarm at her mother's appearance. She hit the delete button. "Let's invite her to Chicago for a few weeks."
"She needs to be observed in her own surroundings. Besides, that woman hasn't set foot on a plane since Uncle Murray passed, and I sure wouldn't trust her to travel across the country alone. You know what happened when she came out for your father's funeral."
"Dad always said she had a bad sense of direction."
"Nevertheless, I don't have time to hunt her down in Canada again. Now, come on, Abigail, it makes perfect sense for you to go. You need a break, and Aunt Lucy was your father's favorite relative. It's our job to look after her now, and if she's incapable of making coherent decisions, we need to help her."
Abigail's conscience tweaked her. She had a soft spot for Aunt Lucy, and her mom knew it. Still, that identity theft story called her name, and she had a reliable source who might or might not be willing to talk in a couple weeks.
"Reagan should do it. I'll need the full month for my column, and we can't afford to scrap it. Distribution is down enough as it is. Just last month you were concerned—"
Her mother stood abruptly, the chair reeling backward into the aisle. She walked as far as the next cubicle, then turned. "Hypertension is nothing to mess with, Abigail. You're so . . . rest- less. You need a break—a chance to find some peace in your life." She cleared her throat, then her face took on that I've-made-up- my-mind look. "Whether you go to your aunt's or not, I'm insisting you take a leave of absence."
There was no point arguing once her mother took that tone. She could always do research online—and she wouldn't mind visiting a part of the country she'd never seen. "Fine. I'll finish this story, then go out to Montana for a week or so."
"Finish the story, yes. But your leave of absence will last three months."
"Three months!"
"It may take that long to make a decision about Aunt Lucy."
"What about my apartment?"
"Reagan will look after it. You're hardly there anyway. You need a break, and Moose Creek is the perfect place."
Moose Creek. "I'll say. Sounds like nothing more than a traffic signal with a gas pump on the corner."
"Don't be silly. Moose Creek has no traffic signal. Abigail, you have become wholly obsessed with—"
"So I'm a hard worker . . ." She lifted her shoulders.
Her mom's lips compressed into a hard line. "Wholly obsessed with your job. Look, you know I admire hard work, but it feels like you're always chasing something and never quite catching it. I want you to find some contentment, for your health if nothing else. There's more to life than investigative reporting."
"I'm the Truthseeker, Mom. That's who I am." Her fist found home over her heart.
Her mother shouldered her purse, then zipped her light sweater, her movements irritatingly slow. She tugged down the ribbed hem and smoothed the material of her pants. "Three months, Abigail. Not a day less."
It is time for a
FIRST Wild Card Tour
book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Denise Hunter
and the book:
A Cowboy's Touch Thomas Nelson (March 29, 2011) ***Special thanks to Audra Jennings, Senior Media Specialist, The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Denise lives in Indiana with her husband Kevin and their three sons. In 1996, Denise began her first book, a Christian romance novel, writing while her children napped. Two years later it was published, and she's been writing ever since. Her books often contain a strong romantic element, and her husband Kevin says he provides all her romantic material, but Denise insists a good imagination helps too!
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Wade's ranch home needs a woman's touch. Abigail's life needs a cowboy's touch. Four years ago, rodeo celebrity Wade Ryan gave up his identity to protect his daughter. Now, settled on a ranch in Big Sky Country, he lives in obscurity, his heart guarded by a high, thick fence.
Abigail Jones isn't sure how she went from big-city columnist to small-town nanny, but her new charge is growing on her, to say nothing of her ruggedly handsome boss. Love blossoms between Abigail and Wade--despite her better judgment. Will the secrets she brought with her to Moose Creek, Montana separate her from the cowboy who finally captured her heart?
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Thomas Nelson (March 29, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1595548017
ISBN-13: 978-1595548016
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Abigail Jones knew the truth. She frowned at the blinking curser on her monitor and tapped her fingers on the keyboard-what next?
Beyond the screen's glow, darkness washed the cubicles. Her computer hummed, and outside the office windows a screech of tires broke the relative stillness ofthe Chicago night.
She shuffled her note cards. The story had been long in coming, but it was finished now, all except the telling. She knew where she wanted to take it next.
Her fingers stirred into motion, dancing across the keys. This was her favorite part, exposingtruth to the world. Well, okay, not the world exactly, not with Viewpoint's paltry circulation. But now, during the writing, it felt like the world.
Four paragraphs later, the office had shrunk away, and all that existed were the words on the monitor and her memory playing in full color on the screen of her mind.
Something dropped onto her desk with a sudden thud. Abigail's hand flew to her heart, and her chair darted from her desk. She looked up at her boss's frowning face, then shared a frown of her own. "You scared me."
"And you're scaring me. It's after midnight, Abigail—what are you doing here?" Marilyn Jones's hand settled on her hip.
The blast of adrenaline settled into Abigail's bloodstream, though her heart was still in overdrive. "Being an ambitious staffer?"
"You mean an obsessive workaholic."
"Something wrong with that?"
"What's wrong is my twenty-eight-year-old daughter is working all hours on a Saturday night instead of dating an eligible bachelor like all the other single women her age." Her mom tossed her head, but her short brown hair hardly budged. "You could've at least gone out with your sister and me. We had a good time."
"I'm down to the wire."
"You've been here every night for two weeks." Her mother rolled up a chair and sank into it. "Your father always thought you'd be a schoolteacher, did I ever tell you that?"
"About a million times." Abigail settled into the chair, rubbed the ache in her temple. Her heart was still recovering, but she wanted to return to her column. She was just getting to the good part.
"You had a doctor's appointment yesterday," Mom said. Abigail sighed hard.
"Whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?"
"Goes out the window when the doctor is your sister. Come on, Abigail, this is your health. Reagan prescribed rest—R-E-S-T—and yet here you are."
"A couple more days and the story will be put to bed."
"And then there'll be another story."
"That's what I do, Mother."
"You've had a headache for weeks, and the fact that you made an appointment with your sister is proof you're not feeling well."
Abigail pulled her hand from her temple. "I'm fine."
"That's what your father said the week before he collapsed."
Compassion and frustration warred inside Abigail. "He was sixty-two." And his pork habit hadn't helped matters. Thin didn't necessarily mean healthy. She skimmed her own long legs, encased in her favorite jeans . . . exhibit A.
"I've been thinking you should go visit your great-aunt." Abigail already had a story in the works, but maybe her mom had a lead on something else. "New York sounds interesting. What's the assignment?"
"Rest and relaxation. And I'm not talking about your Aunt Eloise—as if you'd get any rest there—I'm talking about your Aunt Lucy."
Abigail's spirits dropped to the basement. "Aunt Lucy lives in Montana." Where cattle outnumbered people. She felt for the familiar ring on her right hand and began twisting.
"She seems a bit . . . confused lately."
Abigail recalled the birthday gifts her great-aunt had sent over the years, and her lips twitched. "Aunt Lucy has always been confused."
"Someone needs to check on her. Her latest letter was full of comments about some girls who live with her, when I know perfectly well she lives alone. I think it may be time for assisted living or a retirement community."
Abigail's eyes flashed to the screen. A series of nonsensical letters showed where she'd stopped in alarm at her mother's appearance. She hit the delete button. "Let's invite her to Chicago for a few weeks."
"She needs to be observed in her own surroundings. Besides, that woman hasn't set foot on a plane since Uncle Murray passed, and I sure wouldn't trust her to travel across the country alone. You know what happened when she came out for your father's funeral."
"Dad always said she had a bad sense of direction."
"Nevertheless, I don't have time to hunt her down in Canada again. Now, come on, Abigail, it makes perfect sense for you to go. You need a break, and Aunt Lucy was your father's favorite relative. It's our job to look after her now, and if she's incapable of making coherent decisions, we need to help her."
Abigail's conscience tweaked her. She had a soft spot for Aunt Lucy, and her mom knew it. Still, that identity theft story called her name, and she had a reliable source who might or might not be willing to talk in a couple weeks.
"Reagan should do it. I'll need the full month for my column, and we can't afford to scrap it. Distribution is down enough as it is. Just last month you were concerned—"
Her mother stood abruptly, the chair reeling backward into the aisle. She walked as far as the next cubicle, then turned. "Hypertension is nothing to mess with, Abigail. You're so . . . rest- less. You need a break—a chance to find some peace in your life." She cleared her throat, then her face took on that I've-made-up- my-mind look. "Whether you go to your aunt's or not, I'm insisting you take a leave of absence."
There was no point arguing once her mother took that tone. She could always do research online—and she wouldn't mind visiting a part of the country she'd never seen. "Fine. I'll finish this story, then go out to Montana for a week or so."
"Finish the story, yes. But your leave of absence will last three months."
"Three months!"
"It may take that long to make a decision about Aunt Lucy."
"What about my apartment?"
"Reagan will look after it. You're hardly there anyway. You need a break, and Moose Creek is the perfect place."
Moose Creek. "I'll say. Sounds like nothing more than a traffic signal with a gas pump on the corner."
"Don't be silly. Moose Creek has no traffic signal. Abigail, you have become wholly obsessed with—"
"So I'm a hard worker . . ." She lifted her shoulders.
Her mom's lips compressed into a hard line. "Wholly obsessed with your job. Look, you know I admire hard work, but it feels like you're always chasing something and never quite catching it. I want you to find some contentment, for your health if nothing else. There's more to life than investigative reporting."
"I'm the Truthseeker, Mom. That's who I am." Her fist found home over her heart.
Her mother shouldered her purse, then zipped her light sweater, her movements irritatingly slow. She tugged down the ribbed hem and smoothed the material of her pants. "Three months, Abigail. Not a day less."
It is time for a
FIRST Wild Card Tour
book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book! You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
April 7, 2011
Blog Guest - Allie Pleiter
Yukon Weddingby
Allie Pleiter
A gold-rush town is no place for a single mother. But widow Lana Bristow won't abandon the only home her son has ever known. She'll fight to remain in Treasure Creek, Alaska—even if it means wedding Mack Tanner, the man she blames for her husband's death. Mack sees marriage as his duty, the only way to protect his former business partner's family. Yet what starts as an obligation changes as his spoiled socialite bride proves to be a woman of strength and grace. A woman who shows Mack the only treasure he needs is her heart.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Treasure Creek, Alaska, June 1898
Mack Tanner looked up to see a raging storm coming toward him.
"Good morning," said the storm, otherwise known as Lana Bristow. Each syllable of her greeting was sharp and steely. She stood in that particular way he called her "speechifying" stance, which heralded an oncoming verbal assault. Mack spread his own feet, not particularly eager to endure whatever was coming in front of the half dozen gold rush stampeders he'd managed to hire off the Chilkoot Trail to build his new General Store.
Lana's blond hair was a nest of frayed locks, strands sticking wildly out of the careful twist she usually wore. Her apron hung diagonally across that impossibly tiny waist of hers, with a wide smear of something dark that matched the smudge currently gracing her son Georgie's chin. The brooch she always wore at her neck—that silly, frilly flower thing with all the golden swirls on it—was gone. It was held bent and misshapen, he noticed with a gulp, in her left hand, while she clamped two-year-old Georgie to one hip with her right. One side of her hem was soaked and the boy sported only one shoe.
More was amiss than the argument he'd had with her last night, that was certain. They'd gone at it again regarding Lana's accounts. Her mounting debts had been a constant sore spot between them since her husband, Jed—Mack's best friend—had died in the Palm Sunday avalanche. She'd caught him monkeying with her store credit again, giving her more than what she paid for and "misplacing" numerous bills. And yes, Mack had taken it upon himself to slash her debt so that no one in Treasure Creek would guess the sorry state of her finances.
He owed her that much.
She didn't see it that way.
Instead, his "generosity" made her furious. Why that confounding woman wouldn't let him settle things up for her—when she needed it and he had the resources to easily do so—never ceased to amaze him.
Lana stood stiff and tall. "I have something to say."
Mack could have been blind, deaf, half asleep and still have picked up on that. Every inch of her body broadcast "I have something to say." A low commentary grumble to that effect rippled through the men around him until Mack raised his hand—the one with the large hammer still in it—to silence them.
Not taking his eyes off her, Mack shifted his weight and nodded slowly. For a moment he considered motioning her toward a less public place, seeing as this was no doubt going to be a long "something to say," but the flash of fire in her blue eyes told him to stay put. He had the odd sensation of facing a firing squad.
"Yes." That single syllable loudly declared, Lana spun on her heels, hoisted her son farther up on one hip, and started back down the way she came.
Mack's mouth fell open, letting the nails tumble out to jingle on the ground at his feet. Yes? What kind of riddle thing was that to say? Glory, but the Widow Bristow would be the death of him.
The men found this hilarious, sputtering into laughter and less-than-polite commentary until he threw down the hammer and strode off after her. Once away from the crowd, Mack expected Lana to turn and explain herself. It's what rational people did, after all. When after twenty paces she failed to either turn or slow, he bellowed, "Yes what?" after her. It echoed across the intersection, raising heads on either side of the roads that made up the center of tiny Treasure Creek.
Lana stopped and whipped around to face him. The sudden move forced Georgie to grab at her just to stay upright, balling the neckline of her blouse in his toddler fists. Lana glared at Mack as if he must be dimwitted not to catch her meaning. "I said, 'Yes what?'" he shouted again, not caring which of the curious onlookers gathered on the boardwalks heard him.
Lana furrowed her brows so far down she looked catlike. She flicked her eyes around at the small crowd now staring at them, as if his simple request for a reasonable explanation was some sort of cruel punishment. Lana took three steps toward him, and with something more like a hiss than a whisper, said, "For the seventh time, yes." Having spoken her piece, she turned once again and set off up the boardwalk away from him.
Mack slapped his hat against his thigh, confused and angry. What was that supposed to mean, "the seventh time"? What had he done six times that this now was the seventh…
It struck him like a bolt of lightening, thundering though his chest as if struck by the hammer he'd held moments ago.
She'd said "yes."
As in "Yes, I will marry you."
He'd asked her six times over the last two months, the first time only a week after her Jed's tragic death. Marrying her was the best way to protect her now. After all, he'd lured Jed up here with the promise of fortune and adventure. A promise that ended with Jed buried in snow, alongside dozens of other stampeders who refused to heed their guide's warnings that Sunday. He could have done more to stop Jed, to make his foolhardy buddy see reason and be cautious. But he hadn't, and now Lana was left up here on her own—without Jed and without the fortune he'd made and subsequently lost.
He'd asked her over and over after that, even though she blamed him for Jed's death, knowing she'd rather marry a log than wed the likes of him, well aware of how much she disliked him, but equally aware that it was the only real way to make it up to her and her son. He'd asked her every time she struggled with this thing or that, every time she'd looked weary from keeping up appearances. He asked every time it looked as if the endless struggles of Alaskan living—and the greedy stream of despicable Alaskan men—were about to do her in.
Once, when a drunken "old friend of Jed's" had actually tried to drag her off to Skaguay and marry her by force, he'd even offered to pay her way back to Seattle. She had no family left back there, but he was plumb out of ways to keep her safe when too many stampeders still thought she held Jed's riches. After all, he'd known Jed's lust for gold was growing beyond reason and into desperation. He could have tried harder to protect Jed from the impulsive nature that was always his undoing. The fact that Jed was gone was his fault.
She knew he could have tried harder to save Jed, too. She'd refused every single offer of help. Until now.
So why was his now new fiancee stomping off without an explanation? He'd lived long enough to know that a female could be the most furious of God's creations when provoked, but he would not allow her to stomp off with the last word.
Especially when that last word was "yes."
Grumbling that his keen sense of obligation would likely be the death of him, Mack set off after her. She stalked past the white church—one of the first buildings he and Jed had built when they founded the town—and still didn't look back. Georgie did, though, catching Mack's gaze with troubled brown eyes under that mop of curly dark hair. His mama kept up her furious pace, past the other shops and houses, attracting the stares of the men gathered along the boardwalk. She and Georgie were sulking off to her cabin, from the looks of it. She had to know he'd follow her, even if she kept her back ramrod straight as she turned the corner past the schoolhouse.
The Tucker sisters, a trio of rough-and-tumble gals who'd spent the past month working on that building, stopped their work to look up at the spectacle. Lucy Tucker waved, but Lana stomped on, paying Lucy no mind. Buildings sprung up overnight like mushrooms here in Treasure Creek. Mack felt on display as the sisters gawked among themselves. With his town nearing a thousand residents and ten times that many rushing through in a steady stream toward the Trail, why did all them have time this morning to watch Mack Tanner make a fool of himself?
Lana didn't think she had any tears left to cry. She made her way back through the crowded, muddy main street, past the church Mack and Jed had insisted mark the center of the town they'd founded together just three months ago. Three months that felt like thirty years. She picked her way as fast as she could past the schoolhouse under construction, the bank and several rows of cobbled together shacks where farmers and butchers sold food. She didn't stop until she reached the cabin she and Georgie called home. She hadn't expected to cry, couldn't believe that tears threatened now, and would not, absolutely would not cry in public.
Mack was behind her, she knew it. And he ought to be, if he had an ounce of compassion in that stubborn, domineering head of his. She was sure she heard the thud of his angry boots behind her as she rounded the corner beyond Mavis Goodge's boardinghouse, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of letting him see her turn.
She'd done it. She'd surrendered to the only viable option available to her in Treasure Creek. Some "treasure." It was awful here—cold and crude, muddy and noisy—and this was one of the better towns. It seemed ages ago when Mack and Jed had founded Treasure Creek. They'd been full of big ideas, seeking to create a place of faith and values in the lawless, greedy chaos of the gold rush. Only it hadn't turned out that way. Not for her. Yes, Treasure Creek had become known as a God-fearing town, but what good had faith done in the face of all the rampant swindling of the Chilkoot Trail? Faith hadn't kept Jed off the trail that Sunday, even though the guides warned "the mountain was angry." Faith hadn't squelched Jed's relentless need to chase gold rumors, skipping Sunday services to meet an Indian guide boasting leads to an undiscovered lode. God hid no huge, undiscovered treasures up on that mountain. In her darker moments, Lana believed God sent the deadly wall of snow, stranding her up here and stealing Georgie's father. A vengeful God punished her husband's greed, backing her into so dark a corner that she must accept a marriage of convenience to Mack Tanner.
She laughed at the thought as she pushed open the door of her cabin and stepped into the tiny confines. It wasn't a marriage of convenience. It was a marriage of survival. And survive she would. Here, because here seemed to be the only place there was.
It had struck her last night, after yet another argument over her accounts with Mack, just how bad things had gotten. The point had been pushed home, literally, when she snatched her favorite brooch out of Georgie's hand and pricked herself on the now-bent pinpoint. The toddler had gotten into her jewelry box when she'd left it open after sorting through which jewels she might be able to sell discreetly in Skaguay. Some jewelry box. The rustic chest Jed had built her on her last birthday could barely be called such a thing. Life here was nowhere near what she dreamed it would be. She ought to be thankful that Georgie hadn't speared himself with the brooch before she found him. As it was, Georgie had managed to bend and dent the soft gold by banging it against the hearth until its floral shape was lost forever.
Why did she wear a brooch out here in the first place? Purely ornamental, it wasn't strong enough to hold a shawl or cloak together and it snagged on everything. Still, she wore it daily, a flag of refined defiance. No one would ever know how badly Jed had left their finances. She was and always would be "a lady of means."
Trouble was, she had precious little means left. Lana had realized, as she stared at the broken brooch, that her former self—the delicate Seattle socialite who'd followed her husband on his grand fortune hunt—no longer existed. She couldn't limp back to Seattle and be some man's useless ornament. She craved independence now, but it was a hollow craving without sufficient means.
Women could achieve astounding independence up here. The concept of "female" had been reinvented in Alaska. Transformed into something she wanted very much to be. She couldn't bring herself to turn from that freedom now. Not only that, but to sulk back to Seattle would be to admit that Jed and his adventures had all been nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Lana refused to count herself among the thousands of duped and squandered fortune hunters. Treasure Creek, for all the pain it held, was still the lesser of all available evils. Seattle might be more comfortable, and there were things Georgie could have there that she could never give him here, but Lana had swallowed so much pride over the past three months that she didn't think she could stomach the feast of humility it would take to head south.
I'll do whatever it takes to stay here, she told herself as she pulled the cabin door shut behind her with a declarative slam. Whatever it takes.
She turned and looked at Mack through the cabin's only window. Even if it takes him. The tears she'd held in finally burst out in sobs so great they shook Georgie as he clung to her side.
He stood perhaps a hundred paces from her home, staring at her closed door. The patient, dark expression on his face mirrored the way he looked that awful night Jed died.
About Allie:
An avid knitter, coffee junkie, and devoted chocoholic, Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and non-fiction. The enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, Allie spends her days writing books, buying yarn, and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie hails from Connecticut, moved to the midwest to attend Northwestern University, and currently lives outside Chicago, Illinois. The "dare from a friend" to begin writing has produced two parenting books, fourteen novels, and various national speaking engagements on faith, women's issues, and writing. Visit her website at www.alliepleiter.com or her knitting blog at www.DestiKNITions.blogspot.com
And now, here's Allie!
I've decided I really like adventures.
Not just treks to exotic places, but the right-under-your-nose kind of adventures. The inner ones, where you get one of those "ah-ha" moments that shifts your life's direction. Or the local ones, where you discover places and people that can enrich your life on a daily basis.
Sometimes, when you are very fortunate, you get to write about both. In Yukon Wedding, Mack and Lana are at the ragged tail of a Yukon adventure, but just at the beginning of their journey toward each other. It takes a grand landscape like Alaska to host a grand love story, don't you think? I love to write larger-than-life settings because it shows the common human center of any epic tale. Mack and Lana could be anywhere when you get right down to it, but their struggles against the Gold Rush's hardships amplify their joys as well as their troubles.
When I think of romances in epic landscapes, I think of movies like Dr. Zhivago, Casablanca, and Titanic. What love story plays out on your favorite grand setting?
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April 3, 2011
Excerpt - THE STORY JAR by Robin Lee Hatcher and Deborah Bedford
THE STORY JARby
Robin Lee Hatcher and Deborah Bedford
A lovely novel of three women, their stories threaded together through the concept of
The Story Jar…
The jar itself is most unusual—not utilized in the ordinary way for canning or storing food, but as a collection point for memories. Some mementos in the jar—hair ribbons, a ring, a medallion--are sorrowful, others tender, some bittersweet. But all those memories eventually bring their owners to a place of hope and redemption in spite of circumstances that seemingly have no solution.
Fresh, insightful, yet courageous in the face of difficult life issues, this collaboration by two talented writers first profiles a pastor's wife with two young daughters who faces cancer just as her own mother did before her; and then a remarried mother working through a difficult relationship with a rebellious runaway daughter. The third woman, alone with two teenaged boys who no longer pay much attention to her and seem headed for trouble, discovers the long-lost "story jar" and its significance. She comes to realize she can bring her own sorrows and frustrations to the feet of the Good Shepherd, the Great Physician, the Healer of the brokenhearted. She too will have memories for her own story jar.
"…It captures with surprising sensitivity…communion with God, and some excruciatingly exquisite moments of parental love…" Publishers Weekly
Included in the book are heart-warming tributes on motherhood fro novelists such as Jerry Jenkins, Francine, Rivers, Karen Ball, and Debbie Macomber.
THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY JAR
by Robin Lee Hatcher
In September 1998, I received a story jar as a thank you gift after speaking at a writers' conference in Nebraska. The small mason jar, the lid covered with a pretty handkerchief, was filled with many odds and ends – a Gerber baby spoon, an empty thread spindle, a colorful pen, several buttons, a tiny American flag, an earring, and more.
The idea behind this gift was a simple one. When a writer can't think of anything to write, she stares at one of the objects in the jar and lets her imagination play. Who did that belong to? How hold was he? What sort of person was he? What does the object represent in his life?
Writers love to play the "what if" game. It's how most stories come into being. Something piques their interest, they start asking questions, and a book is born.
A week after receiving my story jar, I attended a retreat with several writer friends of mine, Deborah Bedford included. On the flight home, I told Deborah about the jar. The next thing you know (after all, what better thing is there for writers to do on a plane than play "what if"?), we began brainstorming what would ultimately become The Story Jar. We decided very quickly that we wanted this to be a book that celebrates motherhood, that encourages mothers, that recognizes how much they should be loved and honored.
The Story Jar was first published by Multnomah in 2000, but eventually went out of print. Thus Deborah and I are delighted that Hendrickson wanted to bring it out in a new, revised version because we believe these stories can inspire others, just as it did this reader back in 2001:
"I am an avid book reader and have read thousands of books––maybe more––since the age of 5. I can honestly say that [The Story Jar] has touched me more than any other I have read. I cried, I laughed, and I relearned things that I had forgotten long ago as well as realizing things I never knew. Thank you for sharing your stories with your readers. They are truly inspiring. I plan on giving it to all the 'mothers' in my life for Mother's Day."
You don't have to be a writer to want a story jar. It can be a family's way of preserving memories. Consider having a family get-together where everybody brings an item to go into the jar, and as it drops in, they tell what it means to them, what it symbolizes. We can learn something new about our loved ones when we hear their memories in their own words. Or do what my church did a number of years ago to create a memory for a retiring pastor. Inspired by The Story Jar, members of the congregation brought items to the retirement dinner to put into a story jar or they simply wrote their memories on a piece of paper to go into the jar. It was our way of saying thanks to a man and wife for all of the years they'd given in God's service.
A story jar can be a tool for remembering all the wonderful things God has done in our own lives. As Mrs. Halley said, not all of God's miracles are in the Bible. He is still performing them today in countless ways today, changing lives, healing hearts.
In the grip of His grace,
Robin Lee Hatcher
Excerpt of chapter one:
Thirty-five Years Later
In the basement of the Pink Garter Plaza, the day finally Arrived-as it arrived every year-for the Nutcracker rehearsals to begin.
Party-scene dancers and clowns crowded into dressing rooms, giggling and jamming on ballet slippers that had grown two sizes tight over the summer. Angels and mice played boisterous tag, weaving in and out among everyone's legs, around the furniture, under the rest room doors. Little girls all, with their hair finger-combed into haphazard buns, wearing tights with knees that hadn't come quite as clean as they ought, running amok the way little girls run in every hallway in every dance studio in every town.
Behind them came their mothers, lugging younger siblings, toting coats and backpacks, handing off crumpled lunch bags that smelled of bologna and greasy potato chips and sharp cheese.
"Angels in studio one."
"Pick up a schedule on your way out."
"Mice over here."
Nobody could hear over the music, shouts, laughter, and One voices in every key. Mothers chattered and waved hello to friends. They dodged one another and hugged in the hallway. Several stopped to watch their daughters warm up through the one-way mirror.
"We need volunteers!" Mary Levy, a dance teacher, dangled a tape measure in the air. "This may be the only time we have them together in one place. Can somebody take measurements?We've got to see if the ears are going to fit."
A small group of mothers got the tape and went about measuring heads. They jotted numbers, recounting as they did so the joys and hassles of other dance performances in other years. But after the hoopla had died down, after the confusion had ended and the dancing had begun, only one mother was left waiting outside the one-way mirror. Only one mother stood alone, savoring her daughter's every glissade, every pirouette and plié, watching as if she couldn't stand to take her eyes away.
It wasn't a difficult dance, this dance of the angels. Theia Harkin McKinnis knew each of the delicate, careful movements by heart. Heidi, her daughter, had danced the role of angel last year. And the year before. And the year before that.
A door opened across the way, and out came Julie Stevens, the Nutcracker director of performance. "Sorry to keep you waiting. I've been on the telephone. You know what it's like when you get stuck talking."
Muted from behind the glass, Tchaikovsky's music swelled to its elegant climax before it ebbed away and began again. "Oh no. I'm not worried about the time." Theia checked the clock above the studio door.
"Come in my office. We'll talk."
Theia took a seat inside. She folded her arms across her chest as if she needed to protect herself from something. She realized at that moment exactly why she'd come. In this one place, she needed to regain control.
"I'm here to talk about Heidi's dancing."
"Her dancing in the Nutcracker? She's been cast in the role of an angel."
"She's danced as an angel for three years."
"Do you see that as a problem?"
In this small town, in another week it would be impossible for anybody not to have heard about Theia's cancer.
"Of course there is time," Dr. Sugden had told her in his office when he'd given them the results of the biopsy. "You have plenty of time to seek out a second opinion, if you'd like. I could even recommend somebody. You have plenty of time to educate yourself. You have plenty of time to develop a survival plan."
Even in the dance studio, Theia had to fight to keep the panic out of her voice, just thinking about it. A survival plan. "Heidi wants to dance something different this year. She wants to do something more difficult, something that shows she's growing up."
The dance director picked up a roll of breath mints and ran her fingernail around one mint, popping it loose before she peeled the foil. "Surely you realize that we can't jostle everyone around once the girls have been cast."
"I know it might be difficult, but-"
"We can't give every child the part that she dreams of, Mrs. McKinnis. If we did that, we'd have thirty girls dancing the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy and thirty more dancing the role of Marie. Heidi is perfect as our lead angel. Heidi looks like an angel."
"She's the oldest one, in the easiest dance."
"She knows the part so well that the younger girls can follow her. That's why we always put her in the front the way we do."
"It is small consolation, standing on the front row in a place where you don't want to be."
"Mrs. McKinnis." Julie Stevens crunched up her breath mint and reached for another. "I promise that I will make note of this. I promise that I will cast your daughter in a different role next year."
There isn't any guarantee that I will be here next year.
Heidi didn't even fit into the angel costume anymore. Every year, some volunteer mom let out and lengthened the burgundy dress with its hoop skirt, its tinsel halo, and its gossamer wings.
Theia laced her fingers together, her hands a perfect plait in her lap that belied the anger rising in her midsection. The only problem was, she didn't know exactly who to be angry with. With herself, for letting time slip past without stopping to notice? With Julie Stevens, for holding Heidi back and not letting her blossom?
With God, for letting cancer slip into her life when she least expected it?
Theia stood from the chair and didn't smile. A crazy motto from some deodorant commercial played in her mind: `Never let them see you sweat.' She clutched her purse in front of her and gave a sad little shake of her head. "Miss Stevens, someday you will realize that a child's heart is more important than the quality of some annual performance."
The teenagers in Jackson Hole, the ones still too young to drive, had gotten their freedom this past summer: a paved bike path that ribboned past meadows and neighborhoods, past the middle school and the new post office, clear up to the northern outskirts of town. Kate McKinnis and her best friend, Jaycee, leaned their Rocket Jazz mountain bikes against the side of the house, hurried inside to get sodas, and tromped upstairs to Kate's room. Jaycee sorted through CDs while Kate put one of her favorites in the disc player.
'N Sync belted out their newest number one hit.
"Turn it up." Jaycee flopped on the bed and buttressed her chin against a plush rabbit that happened to be in her way. "I love that song."
"I can't. Today's Saturday. Dad works on his sermons on Saturdays. I have to keep it quiet."
"That reeks."
"On Saturdays, he waits to hear from the Lord. He doesn't want to hear 'N Sync instead." Kate picked a bottle of chartreuse nail polish and handed it to Jaycee. "I'll do your right hand if you'll do my left."
"Only if I can put it on my toes, too."
"I'm kind of worried about my mom. She hasn't been smiling much lately. And neither has Dad."
"My parents do the same thing. Maybe they had a fight. Can I use purple? Do you think it would look stupid if I used both colors?"
"If it does, you can always take it off."
They bent over each other's splayed fingers and toes, accompanied by the constant murmur of the music. Jaycee finished with the purple and screwed on the lid. "Did you hear about Megan Spence? Her parents are letting her drive the car already. She gets her learner's permit now that she's fourteen."
"I want to drive, too. Just imagine what it'll be like, Jaycee. We can go anywhere we want."
"Megan's getting her hardship license or something."
"Not fair." Kate waved her nails in the air to dry them and then pulled her hair back with one hand.
"Let me do that. You'll get smudges." Jaycee grabbed the brush, made a quick ponytail in her friend's hair, and clipped it with a hair claw so it sprang from Kate's head like a rhododendron. "There."
"How do I look?" Kate surveyed both her hair and her upheld green fingernails in the mirror.
"Like a hottie. Same as me." Jaycee surveyed her reflection, too. "I bet your parents will be okay. Just wait a few days."
"Do you think Sam Hastings is cute?"
"He rocks. But he's got a girlfriend."
"Well, you know, I just like him as a friend."
"When I get my license, I'm going to get in the car and just start driving. Just take any road I think looks good." Jaycee started brushing her own hair, too. "Maybe I'll drive all the way to Canada. Or Alaska. Or Mars."
"You can't drive to Mars, silly. There aren't any roads."
"I'll make my own roads. Really, I'll just start out somewhere and take any road I want, without a map or anything. Just to drive forever and see where I'd end up."
"You'd end up lost."
"You can't end up lost, can you, if you don't need to know where you're going?"
It occurred to Joe McKinnis, as he watched the blanket flutter to the grass, that perhaps he hadn't chosen the best spot for a picnic.
Theia stood at the edge of Flat Creek, protective arms crossed over her bosom, counting swallows as they swooped and dipped under the bridge and over the water. Her hair, the same color as the cured autumn grasses in the meadow, had gone webby and golden in the sunlight. As she stood at water's edge, she belonged to the countryside around her, the standing pines, the weeds, the wind.
I wonder if chemo's going to make her lose her hair?
As soon as he asked himself that question, he wished he could take it back. This isn't what she needs from you, Joe. She needs you to stand beside her. She needs you to tell her to believe in miracles. She needs you to counsel her the way you counsel every parishioner who comes to your office seeking answers.
But this was his own wife he was talking about. For her, he could give no answers.
Joe settled on his knees. "Theia? You ready for lunch?"
"Not quite." She didn't turn when she answered him. "It's such a beautiful place."
"It is pretty, isn't it?"
When she started toward him, her steps rustled like crinoline in the grass. "Thank you. A picnic was a good idea."
"We needed to talk."
Theia stopped beside a little makeshift cross resting against a pile of rocks. Kate and Heidi had made it last year, lashing together sticks with string to mark their dog's grave. Even now he heard the girls' voices, their sad pointed questions:
"Do you think dogs go to heaven when they die, Daddy?"
"Maybe dogs don't have to ask Jesus in their heart because they aren't people."
"This was a good place to bury Maggie," Theia said now. "She loved it here."
"Maybe not such a good place to come today." He began to set out their food. Two sandwiches with ham and mustard. Apples. The clear plastic container of brownies.
Theia knelt beside him, unwrapped a sandwich. "Why? Why wouldn't it be a good place?"
"Because this is where we buried the dog."
She took her first bite, but after a moment her chewing slowed. "I guess we should pray," she said, her mouth full. But they didn't. She kept right on eating. Joe chomped into his apple, as crisp as the air.
For two people who had so much to say to each other, it seemed strange-all the silence between them.
At last when they spoke, they spoke together.
He said, "Kate knows something is wrong."
And she said, "Heidi's going to be an angel again."
"Theodore? What are we going to do?"
His pet name for her. Theodore. Always when he said it, she laughed and poked him in the ribs and said, "Joe, this isn't Alvin and the Chipmunks."
But not today. Today she said, "We're going to do what the doctors tell us to do, I guess."
Joe picked a piece of grass and threaded it between his two thumbs. When he blew to make it whistle, nothing happened.
"Of course, this is your chance, Joe. If you ever wanted a different woman-" He looked up, horrified, before he realized what she meant. "I could get big bosoms. Have them remade any size. And I could change my hair."
"You're nuts."
"I could get a brunette wig or even go platinum; no more of this boring, dishwater blonde. We could put me back together exactly the way you want me to be."
"I don't want you any other way except the way that you are right now."
"Well." Her eyes measured his with great care. "That's one choice that you don't have."
"You know what I meant. I meant it the nice way. That I
(Continues...)
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